No child has ever meddled with the Republican Party and Lived to Tell About It

"Your liberal conscience may force you to vote democratic, but deep down you long for a cold-hearted Republican to lower taxes, brutalize criminals, and rule you like a king!" - Sideshow Bob

So today was election day in Madison (unlike the rest of the country, or so I seem to imply). As a member of an extremely liberal profession living in an extremely liberal city, it's sometimes very awkward or downright off-putting to be a Republican, as people make all sorts of assumptions about your personal views, your choices on key issues, and your frequent deals with Satan. Plus, when I tell my parents that I'm voting against the Grande Olde Partie on some key issues, they of course blame my choices upon some kind of "liberal infection" that I get from living in Madison, where *gasp* Communists roam the streets handing out newspapers, where no one likes the president, and where we'd all ride the country into an immoral hell-hole if we had our way (not that my parents care predominantly about the moral issues, for while they are both stalwart Papists, they are far more concerned with their economic focus on my father's continued employment within the aerospace industry, a place that does particularly well under Republican rule for some reason). So basically, I often get mocked by all sides, to the point where sometimes I just dream of turning all of Wisconsin into a nature preserve where my friends and I can hunt the most dangerous game of all, Man.

Like I said, I'm a republican that way.

But way back at the get-go, I swore this blog would not be about politics, so it won't be. I just don't have that much else to say about other things with any kind of coherence, so here's a lot of random stuff since I haven't posted in a while:

First, as to the story T. mentions in the previous comments, here's the short version. We were having our monthly Writing Center training meeting, discussing a scenario where someone had written a paper against reparations for slavery, which was for some reason abhorrent to the instructor. Already, I'm on bad footing here, as I myself am against reparations by that concept (Republican, remember?). But then the conversation devolves, as I could have told you it would long before, into a moral quandry of academic b.s. where we discuss what role we have in changing this person's paper and mind, to transform them from a redneck racist to a kind, all-loving liberal, just like us. There were several of us, however, who felt that to change the paper would be a disservice to our profession, as we always strive to make people's writing better, not writing their papers for them or telling them what to think. So I raised the issue by claiming that we wouldn't even consider changing the paper that drastically if it weren't a "hot button" topic like race. And, in my brilliant inventiveness that has already earned me multiple degrees, the best example I could come up with was: "What if, for instance, they were writing a paper on....the testing of 12-14 year olds....in the field of....umm....Molecular Biology?" Or some nonsense like that. Sadly, my own ire at the exploitation of our early teen scientists in the laboratories of the mad did not accurately convey itself to the rest of the group, who immediately continued their academic circle jerk, wasting my time when I could have been drinking. Or plotting raids on mad scientists. Or both. Luckily, that night led to about seven hours of drinking and drunken Halo.

I'll admit, that phrase doesn't look very funny now. But it did make the entire room laugh, thus cementing my position as Department Jester.

Second, I just found out yesterday that my father's aunt died. I didn't even know he had an aunt. Which brings to mind just how little I know about my father's extended family, which is apparently scattered throughout the country. Which leads me to question what horrible accidents of genetics have been passed on to me and kept hidden away thus far. For all I know, I may end up with superpowers. Or a predisposition to insanity. Or both, leading to wacky adventures and my continued persecution of the cast of That 70's Show.

Other points:

-See The Prestige. It's awesome beyond the dreams of Nazis.
-See Bourbon Samurai's carnivale of shows. And note that his theatre company seems to have simply transplanted the Northwestern class of '04 to New York and let them run mad with power. And people wonder why they refer to it as the Northwestern Mafia.
-Pray for me this weekend, as I travel to Michigan to join friends in their annual drunkfest. If I die, remember me as a peacemaker, and not as an agitator for the destruction of Uruguay.