It’s always weird when you’re recovering from being really sick. I’ve just come out of two weeks of a knocked down, dragged out, cough and snorting extravaganza that left me gasping for breath, and wishing I’d bought shares in Kleenex.
When you’re that sick, when you spend less hours ambulatory and/or awake than you do face down on the futon, you watch the swirl of madness that we call politics with a jaundiced eye; you know it matters, very, very much who is elected to lead the country, but they all sound like Charlie Brown‘s teacher, and look more like distorted monsters from another planet than they do potential leaders.
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 