I recall reading that males think of sex every few minutes, but have never read how often females do. Other than in operational planning it probably doesn't matter much, unless your job has to do with steering other people's minds.

Male or Female, if you're trying to get an American's attention go for the groin. We are base as hounds, the way our nostrils twitch at the sniff of scandal and sweaty drawers, or even shapes. The doings of others simply have to be more interesting than our own, especially if the others are running for office. Their video images on the nightly news are no different from the ones viewed on a porn site: carefully mixed to produce a timely climax for the viewer.

Roy was a good boy. Grew up, went to church and school, and then off to war. He acted with honor and returned in one piece. He found a girl to marry, and you know how THAT is. And he's been married since. He has held responsible jobs over the years, and never a whiff of scandal. So it's no gob-smacker that the minor devils in the Senate don't want his country clodhopper ass anywhere within their area of operations. He might not be one to turn the blind eye and not notice the rot. He might start squawking like Tail-gunner Joe.

Comes the bimbo eruptions from the trailer park; the sketchiest examples extant of Southern pleasure women describing how Roy made them all slimy in their undies out by the pond. Back when they were too young, though Nature would differ. It's been 40 or so years though, and I never forgot an instant. He touched my soul, lied to me and launched me out into an erratic orbit, turning me into the drunken washer woman I am today: Black Russians all day long. My smelly little dog.

The whole thing annoys me. If I'm going to have to live immersed in chaff from propaganda bombs, I'd like for the propagandists to at least be smooth. These guys are like when you finally get your Grandmother to limbo. Badly, badly done. Spring a lie in October, (nobody does that) then get more and more worked up while producing no evidence. Quiver the lip and let a tear slide. Ask, what sort of man...

The sort of people in By God Alabama can smell these pretenders out from afar. Smells like reconstruction to them, without the promises. A highball with no whiskey. More Yankee jive from the Yankee Empire, and 30 round magazines are on special.

Were I a Senator, I would not be one of those who begrudged Roy Moore his seat once he wins it convincingly. Neither would I be one of those squawking obediently to that withered turkey from Kentucky's orders. Mitch the Ditch has crawfish in his mud, eating out his vitals. All these things are in flux.

-Checkered Demon