Dear Amritsar,
I believe it is my civet duty (Mister Bojangly threatened to go on a hunger strike if I didn't, and everybody in my neighbourhood knows how much he loves his ferret chow!) to vote. Here in Pittothastomachsburg, Pennsylton, DC, lineups at polling stations have been known to run eight or nine hours. It pays to prepare (even though I had to get out of work, so I wasn't, technically, getting paid - oh, how I long for the days when the only sacrifice you had to make for the common good was a goat!). So, I packed a lunch, wrestled a folding chair away from Nana Geronimo (she can sit on the stoop for a couple of hours!), put on comfortable shoes and went out to my polling station.
In line in front of me stood a hot young woman in a We Are the Weird t-shirt and jeans, with hair that made her look like a refugee from the 1980s. I'll never forget the first thing she said to me: "Can you hold my place in line? I really have to pee!"
It was so magical, it could have been written by Shakeaspeararetoo.
We started talking and, as the hours passed, we realized we had a lot in common. I loved How to get a Head in Murder, she loved Jersey Smores. I'm a filet mignon kind of gal, she enjoys nothing more than a Bob So Tasty Bob Cajun burger. I was planning on voting for Ronald McDruhitmumpf, she was planning on voting for Joe Bidenhisbeeswax. I'm a little bit country, she's a little bit rock and roll. I - wait, what?
I was falling for...one of those?
I mean, okay, I didn't really believe it when Foxindehenhaus and Fiends host Brian KissMeadekilmeadenow swore that Dumboprats had horns. How would they wear hats? Besides, if any sizable population of human beings had horns, you just know that somebody would come out with a line of horn grooming products. That's the genius of the Vesampuccerian system.
But, yeah, I had long believed that Dumboprats were the source of all of the problems in the country. For one thing, if they got into power, they would be taking away all of my guns (of which I had none, since their display would clash with the decor of my apartment). They would tax my income at 276% and force me to eat food stamps. Antifa would spray-paint slogans on my forehead as I walked down the street. My beloved country would descend into chaos...even more chaos than there had been under Chaos President.
That would be a ripe bucketful of chaos, that would be.
Over a brunch of cold chicken with fava beans and a nice Chianti, we discussed politics. My blossoming love blossom pointed out that the Dumboprats had been in power for eight years, and the most radical thing they did was pass a law modernizing interstate commerce. She joked that she wished the party was organized enough to do something seriously disruptive. At least, I think it was a joke. I'm sure it must have been a joke. Yes. Absolutely. A joke.
As we got to the doors of the polling station, we exchanged numbers. I wrote hers in my Palm Pilot; she wrote mine in sharpie on her palm. I don't know, though. Should I follow up, or should I chalk it off as the seven most magical hours in my life and move on?
Zerlina Lickenchickenour
Hey, Babe,
As thatOh. Her name was Frankina. I should have mentioned that. Sorry.
Zerlina Lickenchickenour
Hey, Babe,
That's fine. An experienced advice columnist learns to rise above interruptions.
As that famous filosopher Keanu Hereevertstoform truly said: "Relationships that, like, start off intense often end up, like, whoa!" It's also true, though, that relationships that start off mildly often end up, like, whoa. Relationships ending up like, whoa seems to be an integral part of the human condition.
Which is to say that all relationships carry the seeds of their own destruction in them from the very beginning. Some find the fertile ground of emotional incompatibility, others founder on the hard ground of empathy. Some are nurtured by the sunshine of profound political contradiction, others sputter out owing to compassion and compromise.
All relationships are hard. All we can do is go into them with an open heart and a locked knife drawer.
Send your relationship problems to the Alternate Reality News Service's sex, love and technology columnist at questions@lespagesauxfolles.ca. Amritsar Al-Falloudjianapour is not a trained therapist, but she does know a lot of stuff. AMRITSAR SAYS: If you enjoyed waiting in line to vote, you're going to be ecstatic over waiting for all the votes to be tabulated and a winner to be declared!