Election Hangover

I have an election hangover. Not the kind that usually starts with “I am awesome at beer pong!” and leads to me chugging six Solo cups of Milwaukee’s Best, but the good kind that serves as a gentle reminder of the fun times from the night before. That leftover dragging feeling where the memories of laughs outweigh the lack of rest, and the discomfort is just enough to warrant eating a sausage biscuit. Also, I have an actual hangover. I didn’t play “too close to call” because I don’t own a funnel, but I did chug a Michelob Ultra when MSNBC announced that Obama would take Ohio. Then, I may have tweeted “I am so happy I might piss myself” to @BarackObama.

This election is a win for women. Not just because of who we did not elect, but also because of who we did. Wisconsin elected openly gay democrat, Tammy Baldwin, and Illinois ousted Tea Party incumbent Joe Walsh in favor of decorated veteran, Tammy Duckworth. (Big night for Tammys!) Duckworth lost both her legs and part of her arm while serving in Iraq. According to the coverage last night on MSNBC, this makes her the first disabled female veteran to serve in Congress. And in Missouri, my new favorite state, Claire McCaskill, the democrat incumbent, defeated Todd Akin, who had to give up his House seat to run against her. Now, maybe Akin has time to go back to ninth grade biology class. Based on his understanding that our super vaginas can repel unwanted sperm during rape, Akin probably thinks, like my six year old son does, that we pee out of our butts.

Now, I have to get back to work. The hangover means it is time to move on. Sweep up the streamers, wipe the sausage biscuit crumbs off my chest, and try to stuff all the bottles into the recycle bin/find an extra container to serve as the back-up recycle bin. I have papers to grade and a thesis to write. I can’t spend my afternoons trying to figure out an oxymoron like “legitimate rape” or determining why actual morons keep getting elected to congress. I am a scholar. The world needs me to solve the crisis of how David Sedaris is, or is not, an unreliable narrator. I am pretty sure if you look up the term “scholarly” in the dictionary, you will see a picture of me pointing at Sedaris, Abu Ghraib style, cigarette hanging out the side of my mouth, finger guns blazing at him stooped over his typewriter. I feel like a parasite holding him captive for my own wicked and somewhat useless games. Today, I must determine how he writes about his former housekeeper and babysitter, Mrs. Peacock, in two different essays. The world cannot wait any longer for this analysis.

Well, hopefully the world can wait until after lunch. I am starving.

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