mmmm muscles

Paul Ryan snapped leaving congressional gym. The Washington Memorial rising between his legs.

There is no Team Romney, Team Obama; it’s not a knockout or a horserace; its not about performance (as the actress said to the bishop); it’s not about first round/first base/winning the spread (whatever that means). It’s not bouncy ball, or spandex, or plastic cups. It’s not who’s butch and who’s the bitch.


I’m not making bets and I’m not laying odds. I’m also not watching this ‘debate’. I don’t care which of them can preacher-curl the most reps (shocked I know that, right? Let me tell you I’ve curled a few preachers in my day).

I want them all to STFU. Our most brilliant and accomplished president in years is trashed by the likes of Steve Kroft and David Gregory. We are supposed to care what Eleanor Rigby thinks (is that her name? married to Greenspan? Osteoporosis?)

I don’t say yet a plague on both your houses. But I’m not far off.

Not because I’m too trivial to comprehend – after all I am the inhouse necktie expert – but because the politics and public debate are trivial beyond belief. And I’m tired. No. I’m exhausted. You think it’s easy carrying around this great burden of talent? It’s a responsibility. As I was saying to Barbara Walters I like 3 reps with no more than 95lbs on the rack for squats. It’s all about form. I need the burn right up in my ass, please no photos…

Wait. What?