I Have an Election Every Morning
There’s an old saying in Tennessee — I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.
-King George
Conventional wisdom tells us it is unwise to discuss politics on a date, but then again conventional wisdom elevated a dunce to the White House, so perhaps the concept is overrated.
My date (well, technically Leslie’s date), a tall, leggy surfer-girl with a taut, athletic frame, charmed me with her wit, each of her punchlines punctuated by a wry smile. She liked to tell dirty jokes. She didn’t take any shit.
And yet just when I began to daydream about offering her our spare bedroom she shattered my reverie with an offhand remark about the Iraq war. At the time, our Middle Eastern misadventure was but a gleam in every Neocon’s eye. It was, however, already a touchy subject for me.
“Excuse me,” I responded, hoping against hope that I may have simply misunderstood, “did you really just say you support this… folly in Iraq?”
She nodded, flashing me that wry smile again. A long argument ensued, neither of us gaining or giving ground.
“The pendulum swings both ways my dear,” I told her after we had exhausted our talking points. “This war — and you people will probably get your way — this war is going to be your undoing.”
Her knee bumped against mine. “I won’t hold it against you for being completely wrong if you don’t hold it against me for being completely right.”
Two weeks later she showed up at my birthday party wearing a form-fitting dress. When she settled next to me she laid a hand upon my inner thigh. She was such a sweet girl in all the ways that mattered. How could I possibly regret waking up next to her in the morning?
We never did discuss politics again. It was probably for the best. In our little cold war of words, we had reached a sexy detente.
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