God Help Me, More Katherine Harris

I had just mixed an exquisite martini, using Maxim's de Paris gin, Cinzano Dry Vermouth, and Feta-stuffed olives, and sat down for a relaxing evening of Hannity & Colmes after a very trying day at work treating dizzy patients. And there she was, in a campaign ad.

I used to think of her as kind of a goyische, older Stacy London, but not anymore. I can never have the hots for this woman. I am looking forward to her campaign with abject dread, because she is obviously going to expend her considerable personal fortune in a doomed campaign which will only add a grim garlicky tang to the overpowering bitter taste of an anticipated Republican rout this November. Kind of like touching my tongue to a 9 volt battery while my Enormous Testicles are jumpered to a car battery supervised by Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.

Please, Ms. Harris, have you no humanity? Quit, now.

And don't get me started on Charlie Crist vs. Jim Davis for Jeb Bush's post. I wonder what Jeb is going to do? Jeb, give me a call, bud, I'm a great admirer of your family.