In this week's issue of the New Yorker, the ever-brilliant David Sedaris contemplates the absurdity that is Undecided Voters. (Read the full article here.) My issue of said magazine is now waterlogged because this excerpt - this perfect summation of how I feel about the questionable mental health and cerebral fitness of anyone who at this late stage can still self-identify with the term "undecided voter" - caused such an hysterical laughing fit that I dropped said magazine into my bubble bath:
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?” To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked. I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?
Seriously!
Thank you, Mr. Sedaris.
1 comment:
While I've commented elsewhere that David Sedaris (whom I generally love) misses the point with his warmed-over joke about Undecided Voters, my absolutely last word on the subject can be found in the latest piece: "Opens and Closes," at my www.undecidedman.com blog.
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