Coconut Porn: Boy on the Rug!

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    I finally got home.  The trip back was a total ordeal.  My houseplants are half dead and ConEd sent me a belligerent notice in the mail.  For the first time in my adult life, I am delinquent.

    Well, I’m working at the Superstudio for the next three days, so I should be able to turn some bucks.  Back to the grindstone!

     I also need to unpack and clean and hit the gym for at least two hours–I gained weight while I was there.  I knew it.  But first I need a nap–I’ve hardly slept at all.  

     Until I have something worthwhile to post, I thought I would share my newest piece of porn made out of coconuts!  What a generous person I am!

    Pretty hot, right?  RIGHT?  If I was in this picture, I’d be sitting next to the guy on the sofa with the notebook.  I would at least give the boy on the floor a pillow.  Well, maybe not.  

Mystery Bruises

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     I was going to title this blog post “Season’s Beatings,” but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  Too corny.  The content matter of my sex life lends itself to lampooning enough as it is.  

      Tonight I dressed up to go out with some of my old girlfriends, and I wore a sleeveless top.  I’ve been wearing sleeves all week because it’s cold.

      Well, later in the evening, someone asked me how I got the bruises on my arm.  Surprised, I looked down, and sure enough–there were marks on my skin.  They were on the inside, almost the underside, so I understand how I missed them.  

      I didn’t know what to say, because I’ll be damned if I have a clue about how they got there.  I mean, I know–gotta be the Surgeon; I haven’t let anyone else beat me recently, alas.  I had to have gotten them the last time I saw him…but I don’t remember what caused these marks in particular.

    Mystery bruises are not at all unusual (as I wrote about here !!!sensitive–work alert!!!).  When there are multiple blows (and there almost always are) overlapping on the same area(s) of the skin (which they almost always do), the pain from one area of impact bleeds into another. It becomes impossible for my brain to distiguish the strikes with any certainty.  Especially if I can’t see them land, which, again, is typical.  

     I find that the only thing that helps me distinguish the strikes if they’re coming hard and heavy is if the impliments used to deliver them are switched fairly often.  I’ve known men who liked to use many different tools in a scene–Heinrich, in particular, comes to mind, he has an arsenal–and I often do it myself when I control others.  The Surgeon’s choice of weaponry is pretty predictable, however.  Like all obsessive-compulsive people, he is a creature of habit through and through.  Every now and then he’ll shake it up, but he mostly uses the same two or three tools.  Excluding his teeth.  

      Which brings us back, gentle reader, to the bruises on my arm.  What the hell caused them?  I wish I’d seen them before they faded so much.  I’ve got some on my back and legs, but they don’t look like these.  

       At first I thought they might be bites, because of the dotted look of the lines–see here?

     But that isn’t shaped like a bite mark.  The ones on my arm are all strangely shaped.  Maybe chain?  I am leaning towards chain, but I really can’t figure it out.  And how did they get on the inside like that?  I am thinking it must have happened when my wrists were behind my back–that exposes the inner arm.  But then–the chain? 

     I’ll run it by the Surgeon; ask him if he has any ideas.  He won’t mind.  He gets a kick out of it when I play CSI Investigator the day afterward.  It’s interesting, actually, what comes out of his mouth sometimes when we have these conversations.

     “Sometimes, I really don’t know how you can take all that,” he told me once.  We were in a Hotel suite in midtown (oh, hotel suites I have known!).  We were taking a break after about three hours.  He was sitting on the sofa, stabbing at the sushi he’d just had delivered.  I was…I don’t remember what I was doing.  I was obliterated; off in la-la land.  

     “I seldom hold anything back.  A lot of times, I hit you as hard as I can.”

       Interesting, that.  Very interesting. 

       A prudent woman would be wise to consider the implications of that statement.  

Christmas Birds

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  As reader of this blog know, I love animals, especially birds!

  My mother decorated the Christmas Tree with some bird ornaments.  These are my mother’s birds:

Portrait of the Writer as a Young Sparrow

Miss Margo, today, as a Cactus.  Partyin  with  my Peeps!

Christmas Tree Dove sez “HELLO!”
shiny dove

wooden water bird–very pretty–I like this one

metal dove

Christmas Tree Swan!

Another dove!  HELLO!


The Skymall Catalog is Decadent and Depraved

    I never enjoyed smoking pot.  I don’t have any moral objection to it–smoking marijuana frequently probably isn’t good for you, but it’s a hell of a lot less dangerous than the booze I poured into my poor, helpless brain on a regular basis for years.  I just never liked the way that pot made me feel.  I haven’t been stoned in years and years.

     Until this afternoon.  

     I got high on the plane (get it?  High? Plane? hardy har har).  How, you ask?  

     I’ll tell you: the Skymall catalog.  It made me trip right the fuck out.  Trippier than Burning Man, trippier than the Pink Floyd laser light show I went to when I was 19.  Trippier than the summer I spent in East Hampton with my psychopathic Ex (that was really weird–both the Hamptons and the Ex).  One time, when I was in Amsterdam, I ate half a bag of hallucinogenic mushrooms and went to the van Gogh museum.  That was trippy, but it was nothing compared to the Skymall catalog.  

     I fucking took it with me when I exited the plane.  I think I’ll display in on my coffee table next to Harper’s and The New York Review of Books, as if it was a piece of weird abstract art, or something.  

     I’m serious.  Has anyone else ever seen this shit?  Unbelievable!  I can tell you what, though–it helped me feel a hell of a lot better about my life!  God, I was feeling kinda depressed last month, what with my relapse and going to work at the Superstudio and lying to the Surgeon and freaking out about school and, you know, the anorexia nervosa.  But fuck me: at least I’m not the sort of person Skymall is marketed to!  At least I did not peruse Skymall and think to myself: Hmmm, these products are really great ideas!  I may be underemployed and weird as hell, but at least I do not have a soul so dead that I would shop out of Skymall!

    Here, come with me, comrades–we’ll take a look together.  

    Skymall perfectly exemplifies everything I hate about America.  It is profoundly dystopian.  Fuck me!  I know I’m cursing a lot, but I can’t help it–this thing is eye-popping.  If you could somehow send this catalog back in time to the people of the USSR, we’d still be fighting the cold war.  Communism never would have fallen.  It probably would have spread, actually.  Skymall would have confirmed the Soviet people’s most paranoid fantasies of American’s decadence, corruption, and misplaced priorities.  

      Clearly, this is a publication designed exclusively for individuals that have MBAs and got their undergrad degrees in marketing or, maybe, finance.  Nothing artistical (God no), nothing practical, and nothing that would require you to have more than three or four brain cells to rub together.  It is a publication for people who have a lot of disposable income, but are probably not quite rich–I’m guessing they make salaries of $100,000–$200,000.  People at the height of their income potential.  Mostly men.  Men with dogs, children they never see, houses with big lawns and BBQs, and wives they buy shit for but probably do not have sex with.  

Look at this: a steak branding iron!  Only $79.99!  You can get your name on it.

Branding Irons
For the neurotic, sadistic surgeon in your life who has everything!  

Why in hell would anyone want a steak branding iron?  What are you, Jeffrey Dahmer?  Some kind of goddamned cannibal?  What is the matter with you?  Wait–actually, now that I think about it, the Surgeon would probably be happy to get one of these for Hunnukah and brand my ass with it–“SURGEON.”  He’s really possessive.  Anyway, I am not sure that recommends the Skymall steak branding iron.  

       The Skymall demographic apparently loves to golf.  I counted at least half a dozen golf-specific items in the catalog.  This one is the most disturbing.  It is absurd, but just because it is absurd, does not mean that is not frightening.  The copy reads: “What a great hair-raising idea!”  Indeed, Skymall, indeed.

Flair Hair Visor - Adult
The “Flair Hair Visor.”  Reviewers gave this product 4 out of 5 stars.

        Hair seems to be a common preoccupation among Skymall shoppers.  They seem to have a ton of anxiety about losing their hair and/or going gray.  Okay, fine.  But look at what they will buy!

iRestore Hair Laser

        A HAIR LASER!  A hair laser HAT!  How can this not be a joke?  Look at the copy: “A new revolutionary device to control your thinning hair! 3 times better light efficiency than any other hands free laser restoration device invented!”  Only $599–DISCOUNTS DO NOT APPLY!

        (Men–my advice: if you’re balding, cut it short–or shave it if you can pull off that look–and just face the issue with dignity.  Better to be bald than undignified.  Some women will not want to have sex with a bald guy, I guess–I don’t know why not, but whatever.  However, NO woman wants to have sex with a guy that looks absurd.  Don’t look absurd.)

iRestore Hair Laser
“I will never, ever get laid unless I pay for it.”
Control seems to be a big issue for Skymall readers.  A lot of the ads talk about control–control your dog’s barking, control insects and vermin, control the whiteness of your teeth (apparently, teeth should be as white as a refrigerator), control the amount of mess in your house, or at least the ability of others to see it.  Yes, the word being used is really “control.”  I am not inferring the meaning here.  That’s what it says in the copy.

I know a lot about control.  Please take my word for it.  I study it recreationally and professionally.  It is an obsession of mine, actually–losing it (alcohol; crazy men), keeping it (starving, not letting anyone in).  My sexual proclivities.  I prefer the word control to domination actually; it feels more appropriate for what I do.

So let me tell you, gentle reader, about control: behind every controlling impulse, there is usually fear.  It’s a spectrum which ranges from mild anxiety to the most rank, nightmarish terror.  Fear is fascinating.  You can tell a lot about people by what they’re scared of.

So–judging from the ads, what are the people who buy the stuff in the Skymall catalog fearful of…?  Teeth that are not white (not looking “right”?)?  Well, yes, but there’s more (isn’t there always?)

Well, for one thing, there are lots of ads for security cameras.  Most of them are covert spy cams, like this one:
Tissue Box Hidden Camera
“Catch your wife cheating on you!”

Why would anyone want this product?  HMMMMM let’s see–maybe the average Skymall shopper is thinking, “I travel for my shitty job so much.  My marriage sucks.  I haven’t had sex with my spouse in three years.  What are they doing at home?”

They are also worried about VERMIN.  There are dozens of expensive products to locate and destroy vermin.

Deluxe Pest & Insect Repeller
I think bugs are gross too.  But you know, the upper-middle-class obsession with them is kind of amusing.  You don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to figure this out: what do the bugs actually represent in the subconscious of these affluent people?  Ugly threats trying to get in.  Why are their fears so often biological?  

Jesus, just get a cat!

Speaking of which, the domestic animals of Skymall shoppers have it pretty damn good.  Unless they bark.  Barking is not allowed.  Skymall shoppers are death on that shit.  

Deluxe Bark Control Collars
Electrocute your dog for barking!  Zapping bark control collar

            Actually, a bark control collar could be fun.  On a boy.  I could give him zaps!  It would be fun to make him scream, and then when he made noise, he’d get zapped!  Yes yes, this has potential.  

      Anyway–you know why your dog barks its ass off all the time, Skymall shopper?  Because he’s not exercised or trained.  Why not?  Because you’re on this airplane constantly and are never home.  Why do you have a dog?  Well, at least someone in your household loves you.  

        Aside from bark control collars, there is some really nice stuff for dogs and cats in this catalog.  I mean, Jeez.  This furniture is way better than anything in my apartment!

ZenHaus Dog Crates
ZenHaus Dog Crate: $599.99
Luxury Pet Residences

             Skymall shoppers drink.  That’s okay; more power to them.   There are pages and pages of strange and totally unnecessary barware.  

Margaritaville Liquor Chiller
The “Margaritaville Liquor Chiller.”  $199.   What?

        But I sympathize with these well-payed, functioning drinkers.  I mean, shit.  If I had a spouse that was decorating my McMansion in Oklahoma City with some of the home decor offerings for sale in the Skymall catalog, I would feel like I wanted to drink, too:

Squirrel Thinker Sculpture
The ad says: “He may not be the smartest squirrel in the squad, but he  does do a great imitation of a great work of art.”    It’s RODIN’s The Thinker, you barbarously ignorant fucktards!
Catch of the Day Bear Statue
Why?  Why?  Somebody call the homeowner’s association 
Elephant Sculptural Sconce
Well…at least it’s not real

           “Honey, could you put more tequila in the liquor chiller?”  Yes.  Booze.  I’d need it.  Just don’t trip and hit your head on that huge resin BEAR out on the lawn!

         Now, you’re going to need to work off all those empty calories, and you’re sure not doing it sitting on your ass on the airplane.  Don’t worry, Skymall has just the product for you:

Whole Body Vibration Trainers

             The “Whole Body Vibration Trainer.”  $3,995  Apparently you stand on it and it shakes you.  Because Americans would rather die than do a push-up.  

        I could go on–there are 200 pages of this shit–but I fear for my sanity and peace of mind.  The catalog is, I think, kind of like radiation.  You can only take it in very small doses.  Whatever you do, don’t stay in too long. 

Merry Christmas, everyone!

The Child of the Morning: Rosy-Fingered Dawn

     I wish I could post a photo of the view of the sunrise for you readers.  I’ve been watching it for twenty minutes, coming up over the tall buildings that line the East River.  It was purple-pink, then rose, and then orange bled into it.  Now it’s getting yellow and I can’t look at it anymore.   Burn my eyes.  

     Since I stopped drinking, my memory’s gotten so much better (imagine that, huh?).  I always had a fantastic memory.  In school, I didn’t really have to study, for the most part (had to study Math.  Without a doubt.  Chemistry sucked, too.  I mean, chemistry is awesome, only my ability to easily comprehend it sucked.).  If I read it carefully, I remembered it.  I’m not bragging, I’m just saying.

     Why do I apologize for my talents?

    Times like this, I wish that I had a Nigel.  A nigel of my very own! (click the link–“I Blame the Patriarchy.”  Not an easy read–I didn’t get it the first few hours I was there.  But if you hang in there…it’s worth it.)

      A nigel!  We would canoodle in my bed.  Maybe he would make me a waffle.  I would eat a waffle for him.  A whole waffle!  

     I have to go back to see my family and I don’t want to, even though I love them.  That place is haunted.  I want to drink.  If I had scotch here, I’d drink it, even though it is 7:30 AM.  Isn’t that disgusting?  Totally disgusting.  I am not even doing it, and it’s disgusting.  ARGH!  Well, Margo, don’t torture yourself over something you haven’t done.

     I am sad.  I want a boy!  Why don’t I get one?  They are easy to get.

    I still have Jeff’s phone number.  I wonder if I could get him back?    If he’s not with another woman, I bet I could charm him again.  

    That was a real man.  A real mature, responsible man.  Emotionally evolved.  

    But how could I do it to him–knowing myself as I do? 

    scotch scotch scotch scotch scotch  

From the Bottom of My Heart, A Salute to The Troops

    I have been hemming and hawing and fretting about this matter for years now, and I’ve been afraid to write about it publicly because I want to do it justice and I’m worried that my writing just won’t be up to par.  But I’m going to do it now because it deserves to be done: THANK YOU, TROOPS, FOR YOUR SERVICE IN THE WARS.

     I don’t want to make this blog post about me, but I think it’s necessary to provide a little context in order to adequately express my appreciation.  

     I have given serious thought to going into the military.  I will always feel guilt–appropriate guilt, I think–for not serving alongside other members of my generation in Iraq and Afghanistan.  

      I am working class; a lot of my high school acquaintances went into the military.  Most of the men in my family served, including my father.  My mother worked for many years at the VA hospital.  

   When the terrorist attacks of 9/11 happened, I was a very young undergrad. I was shocked at the notion of meaningful military intervention–the 1990s, post USSR, were a sleepy time for foreign policy, and it seemed inconceivable that we’d go to war with anyone.  War?  What for?  Nothing on earth was a realistic threat to us.  

      I was uneasy about military strikes towards Afghanistan–I loathed the Taliban way before 9/11 because of their human rights abuses and oppression of women, but I was worried about the carnage war would bring to the civilian population.  They were so poor and defenseless.  I was totally against the invasion of Iraq.  It was predicated on a fucking fraud.  I wrote opinion columns against in in my local papers, I went to anti-war marches in NYC, Washington DC, Sacramento, San Francisco, other places.  I was involved in activist organizations to prevent that, and stop it once it happened.

      However, it happened, as we all know.  And it kept happening.  And it did not stop.  I kept hating it.

       Eventually, the first round of soldiers came home.  I taught several of them at my last University.  They were in a program to earn their Bachelor’s degrees so that they could become officers.  Some of them had scars–physical scars, that I could see for myself.

     The war went on and on.  Around 2007, it occurred to me that the war could last forever.  That a population of my generation was fighting it, and that they would never be the same afterwards.  I mean, it wasn’t a short tidy military operation–the youth, my PEERS, were going there and serving multiple tours of duty and making a tremendous sacrifice of their directions of life.  The military operations in Afghanistan and Iraq were affecting their entire lives, and the lives of their families.  Time that they could never get back.  And what they were witnessing, being exposed to–fucking roadside bombs!  Brain injuries!  Limbs blown off!  

      It stopped being about politics for me, and started to be…a sense of responsibility to my generation.  I started to think: holy shit–when I’m 50 years old and at a barbecue, there is going to be a person there who spent most of his youth, like 10 years, in Iraq.  And what did I do during that time?  Pursue my college degrees?  Fucking aggrandize myself and my potential progeny at the expense of the taxpayers (I am a scholarship and fellowship student–I have incurred almost no debt for my education.  I am blessed.)?  

      How am I going to look this person in the eyes?  What have I done?  Because it’s not about whether this war was right or wrong at this point.  It’s about the fact that MY PEERS went to fight it and were kept there to fight it and stayed to fight it, and practically all that time, I was studying–for free!–and getting degrees that will presumably give me a comfortable living eventually–for free!  And they are fucking dragging their asses around Basra in 108* temperatures with thirty lbs. of body armor on and their families are worried sick about them and their lives are on hold and they can never really come back home again.  Not really, not where it counts.  I’m not saying that being in war damages a person and I would never presume to speak for the servicemen/servicewomen and their experience, not ever, but from the people I know personally who served, even in peacetime: it changed them.  For good or for bad, it changed them.  And the least that I, and society, can do, is fucking acknowledge that.    

      I hear some people say, “Well, it’s a volunteer army!”  As if signing up for it dismisses whatever sacrifices they have to make.  What an awful attitude that is.  They do it so we don’t get drafted.  They are workers.  They have rights.  If they are hurt, they are our responsibility   They are our responsibility even if they don’t get hurt.  Think about what they are required to do.  War is murder. Do you learn how to do murder at your job?  At age 18-25, no less!

     My father served during Vietnam.  Voluntarily.  He didn’t go to Vietnam–for whatever reason, the military sent him back to Germany and South Korea.  He did multiple tours.  Later, he always said, “I feel very guilty that I never served in Vietnam.”  I could never understand this.  GUILTY?  He didn’t even agree with Vietnam, politically.  Why feel guilty?  Sounded to me like he lucked out! Thank your lucky stars!  Who in hell would want to go to Vietnam?  

     Now, I understand.  Now I understand.  

      People paid.  They paid for things that they did not do.  Their families paid, their children paid, their communities paid.  Society paid.   The Vietnamese paid.  Boy, did they ever pay.  

       Last year, at this time, I was stranded at an airport in Phoenix, Arizona.  The terminal was clogged with dozens of servicemen, also stranded.  After much hemming and hawing, I approached a cluster of them, and said: “Excuse me, Sirs, but I would like to buy you all a drink as a token of appreciation for your service to our country.”

     The humble aw-shucks look on their faces was so touching.  They said that they could not drink because they were wearing their uniforms.  I thought this was preposterous–who ever heard of soldiers that could not drink!?  Totally absurd, right?  Soldiers been drinking since Roman times–it’s like a joke!

     Anyway, they invited me to sit with them and one of them showed me photos on his laptop computer.  He grew up in a town close to me.  He was in the Navy; had joined the navy even though he’d never seen the ocean before he enlisted.  He was a teenager. I remember how fresh his skin was–how clear and dewy.

     When I finally got home, it was early morning, and there were families waiting in the airport with WELCOME HOME signs for their returning solders.  Flowers.  Babies.  Passing them, I started to weep.    

      I should have done more.  We should do more.  


Wardrobe Decision FAIL

    Oh my God–what was I thinking…?  When I was running out the door this morning, I forgot that when we meet guests for consultation at The Superstudio, we do it dressed in street clothes (at the other Houses I’ve worked at, we said Hi to them wearing our fancy clothes).  

    Therefore, it’s important to put a little thought into what you wear to work.  You want to look pretty, polished.


    A shirt with a cartoon penguin on it and the word “LOVE” over its head!!!  The ‘o’ in “love” is shaped like a heart.  And sneakers!  Oh my God.  I look fourteen years old.  
*                                            *                                   *                                     *

Update:  I just spoke to a guy who made me nervous.  He had no idea what he wanted.  You don’t come in to a place like this and not know what you want–it just doesn’t happen that way.  Novices are one thing, but this dude had no clue.  He asked, “What do you suggest?”  Ummmm…I suggest no illegal activities, Mr. Man!  You know that this is a totally legit establishment, right?  He asked, “So, do you have a bedroom here?  A shower?”  Ummm, why would you care, Mr. Man?  You have those in your house, don’t you?  Do you think that the management charges such high fees to provide such pedestrian things?  He asks, “What are your fees?  Do you work outside of here?  Can I get your number?”  Ummm, take it up with the receptionist Mr. Man!  I don’t talk money.  That is dangerous.

      This guy is LE.  I’m telling Frau Farbissina.  I’m not going to see him and if he stays to spend time with someone else, I am going out to lunch until he’s GONE.

What I Want for Christmas: Torture Me Please, Mr. Fiennes

YAAAAY I mailed my rent check!  YAAAY I mailed my rent check!  Now that that’s taken care of, I can turn my attention to more important matters: imaginary boyfriends!

      What imaginary boyfriend are we up to now?  I think #7.  I will have to check.

       Anyway, I’ve had the most crushable crush on Ralph Fiennes since I was 12 years old.  Of my prepubescent crushes, Mr. Fiennes was the last, and by far the most enduring (the other two are Yul Brynner and, to my eternal shame, William Shatner.  Captain Kirk, actually.  What a corny sexist oinker Kirk was!  Today I’d throw my drink in his face.  But when I was a kid, I thought he was hawt.  Incidentally, I also wanted to be the mermaid on the Chicken of the Sea can ).

Miss Margo’s Dream Job, age 7!

       Mr. Fiennes is a terrific actor and I think that he is so goddamned beautiful that he does not seem to be human.  I mean, really–insofar as beauty is concerned, I do not see how he could be improved upon.  He’s got a big nose, but a big nose on an otherwise well-proportioned face looks regal and debonair, somehow.   Feinnes does a lot of period pieces, too, so I get to look at him wearing wonderful clothes (I am nuts for 1920s-1950s wardrobe, and I subscribe to GQ magazine just to look at at the male models in their suits.  Though, the mag does have really good journalism sometimes). Oh my god.  The End of the Affair was totally forgettable, but I own it on DVD just because I love to watch Mr. Fiennes walking around in those clothes!  And in The English Patient–oh ma gawd!!!  When he was all jealous?  “Are you going to drag him into your little room?”  And in the bathtub?  Oh ma gawd!   AAARGH so exciting–Mr. Fiennes, where are you now?  I am as pretty as Julianne Moore (she does have better hair, though)!

“Miss Margo, would you please chain me to your bed and take all my clothing away?  Alternately , I would love to beat you with a stick!”  
Bare feet and shirtsleeves!  Bare feet and shirtsleeves!  Miss Margo cannot express sufficient  enthusiasm  for this.  Yes, keep him chained to the bed.



    I’ve done a lot of campaign work in my life.  Something I read whilst checking my emails today reminded me of this blog-worth event…

     Back in the day, when I was a freshly-minted politics junkie, it was election season and I was working my ass off for Ralph Nader.  

     I wanted a Nader sign to display, but the Nader campaign was not exactly flush with cash, so I had to pay for the sign out of pocket (and what shallow and threadbare pockets they were in 2000…fuck me, some things never change!).  Anyway, I buy it, sign arrives, I put it up, yadda yadda…

     Turns out, I helped to paint the house I was living in.  I moved the Nader sign while I was painting.  In the course of painting, the sign got a drip of paint on it.  I didn’t see this till after the fact.  

      Painting accomplished, I put the sign back up.

      A few days later, it was gone!  SOMEONE STOLE MY NADER SIGN!

      Well, shit happens.  I assumed the thief was some right-winger.  I was confused about why they’d be threatened enough by Nader to steal his sign, since Nader posed, umm, el zilcho threat to political life in that area, but whatever.  

      A week or two later, I was walking around my neighborhood, and saw a Ralph Nader sign on the front lawn of a house!  I did a double-take (Nader signs were, ahh, very unusual where I lived).  Holy shit!  A fellow Naderite!  

     Then I looked closer.

      There was a paint splatter on the sign, and it was identical to the paint dripped on my sign!  There, on the sidewalk, in that college neighborhood, I quailed in agony!  The shame, the shame, the Awful Truth!

     I was the victim of liberal on liberal crime!