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If the goal is to cause both sides of the political spectrum to quiver, twitch and shake like a raccoon clinging to the outside of a cement mixer speeding through a railroad yard, just casually throw out the term, "gun control," and step back. The left considers all guns the reprehensible tool of warriors, criminals and primitives, while in most of red state America, the definition of gun control is using two hands and hitting the target.
Every four years our nation's electoral eccentricities escalate exponentially and people throw up their hands and shout, "you know, every election cycle is wacky, but especially this one."
A hearty congratulations to conservatives for a seamless transition from party-wide disgust to near unanimous endorsement of a gorilla as their presidential nominee. Considering the tortuous undulations required, this metamorphosis seems to have occurred with shockingly few chiropractic adjustments.
Oh dear. Not pretty. The upcoming presidential campaign is ugly now and destined to ratchet up to epic uglier as soon as Bernie Sanders decides to bow out. Which is imminent. Not soon enough for Hillary Clinton, but not long.
One of the oddest moments in a presidential campaign filled brim-spillingly with them is the sight of the Republican Party struggling to rally around the man looking more and more like its presumptive nominee, Donald J. Trump. Perhaps "rally" is too strong of a word. More of a depressed dawdle. A lackluster loiter. Melancholy mosey. Crematory crawl.
As evidenced by his hair, Donald J. Trump is pretty much wrong all the time. Every time. About everything. Except when he isn't.
A major silver lining in this cruelest month of April is a lull between show business awards galas. The lack of gold plated statuettes being flung about mercifully allows many Americans to stand upright for the first time in months.
And once again America reaches for the Tylenol after wrenching its collective back recoiling from the wacky ugliness monopolizing the presidential election primary process, but this time, it's... the Democrats.
Go ahead, exhale a deep sigh of relief because our long national nightmare could very well be over. Yes, dear friends, Donald Trump might have bitten off more than he can chew and we may be mere moments away from combing him out of our hair for good. Then throw away the comb.
How low can a presidential campaign go? In 2016, the answer to that question is find a snake belly and dig.
The "Stop Donald Trump" movement began as a gentle trickle within the Republican party. Now the number of GOP groups intent on preventing the New York real estate developer from becoming their presidential nominee is about to exceed broken March Madness brackets. Thanks, Michigan State.
It's become painfully obvious that the term "Super Tuesday" was coined for the quantity of elections contested, not the quality of participants involved. Otherwise, we'd be forced to change the name to Kind of Okay Tuesday. Or Is It Really Necessary to be This Loud Tuesday.
This huge brouhaha between the FBI and Apple has escalated into a battle royale between the righteous and the wicked. And, as often happens, both sides are claiming to be on the side of the angels.
Q. Has the issue of Justice Antonin Scalia's replacement on the Supreme Court turned a mite political? A. You could say that. You could also say that flight simulation wind-tunnels are tough on comb-overs.
The great state of Iowa has a history of cultivating its topsoil for a harvest of winners the rest of the country may enjoy. Glenn Miller. Buffalo Bill Cody. George Reeves. Herbert Hoover. James Tiberius Kirk. As a side note, this may be the first time in history the word "enjoy" has been linked to Herbert Hoover.
To taunt his rival and sow seeds of evangelical doubt, Rafael Edward "Ted" Cruz informed Donald Trump that the rest of the country was concerned about his alarming New York Values, totally ignoring the greater danger of the real estate developer's aerodynamic coif toppling over and knocking innocent supporters unconscious with its hard candy shell.
In his last State of the Union Address, that renowned weaver of uplifting platitudes, President Barack Obama, crocheted his constituents one final quilt of bittersweet melancholy to remember him by. Not a victory lap so much as someone pulling his arms inside the chains preparing to dismount a swing over a crocodile pit.
At the beginning of a new year, cultures all over the world traditionally perform peculiar ceremonies meant to wipe the slate clean and start afresh.
It's hard to believe, but we're on the brink of another presidential election year. Let us pray. Every quadrennial, the American political process plays out as a big-top carnival sideshow featuring moral contortionists, ethical geeks and fat sweaty white guys teetering on slack media wires.
It's the most wonderful time of the year. And a large part of what makes it so goldarn fabulous is the festive array of idiosyncratic traditions each family imprints on their holiday gene map like a candy cane tattoo on the soft flesh behind your knee.