AFD: A candidate we can believe in

There are times to be pragmatic. We call these General Elections. And there are times to be idealistic, hopeful, and optimistic. We call these primaries.

So this primary season, I am supporting, profoundly rooting for, the candidate who most deeply inspires me, who represents the kind of future in which I want to live and watch my loved ones raise children.

This means, of course, that I am joining the AFD movement:

Americans For David.

Family values

It’s time The Hoff brought dignity back to the Oval Office, where it’s lived in unparalleled consistency for a mere eight years.

These are challenging times, a world that seems infected with villains, and we need a hero. Or at least, heroic chest hair.

This man. This man can face Putin on equal footing.

This is why I am specifically supporting Mr Hoff circa 1985. Because the kind of man who can drive a car like that, with a bosom-pelt like that, can drive our nation back to greatness. On the kind of road we’ve been following for a mere eight years.

And man, look at those big hands and biologically-colored hair.

And look at the fact that he has both a spine and other mammalian traits (that’s a jab at Ted Cruz, who appears to be some form of annelid).

The only way The Hoff could be better would be if he were an intelligent, soulful, experienced professional public policy expert with a truly impressive record of standing up for what’s right and denying the corporate sponsorship that afflicts our nation. And was from Vermont.

But where are you going to find a candidate like that?

So today, March 32, 2016, I formally declare my Allegiance For David. Don’t forget to vote, my friends.

Let's Make America Great Again

Sign language

Malaysian freeways are not for bikes. Nor ox carts.

So I’m riding down the street yesterday, right-hand lane like I’m supposed to, directly over the big puffy-paint bicyclist symbol that tells reminds cars that bicycles have a right to exist in three dimensions, and this morbidly obese land-yacht of a Caddy behind me starts honking at me. I know, right? Like I’m supposed to fly, or something. Plus, I’m already going as fast as the car in front of me, just call me Lance Armstrong Greg Lemond, but the peak fuel bugger behind me honks again. I would think it was that old urban legend about the car behind flashing his lights every time the murderer in the back seat rises up, except as fancy as my beautifully battered bicycle is, it ain’t got no backseat. But so I point right down at the symbols as I ride over each one. Bicycle lane, buddy. But no, he keeps tooting at me the whole way home. Toot toot you mother pheasant plucker. Some people.

That's one dangerously rugged floor you got there, Hong Kong

The only thing I can think is that the individual in question had at least one of four afflictions. One: terrible vision, couldn’t see the signs, in which case they shouldn’t be driving a car anyway. Two: couldn’t see the road over that urban Serengeti of a hood, in which case no one should be driving that car. Three: they’re lazy, stupid, and hate cyclists. Four: just don’t see signs anymore.

Signs can be informative. If only I knew which one
was being proscribed, on a train in Myanmar.

That fourth one I can kinda understand. We urbanites, especially in litigious and don’t-expect-people-to-use-their-thinky-parts societies, live in a forest of printed instructions, a melee of designations, a clusterfudge of prohibitions, demarcations, and condemnations. If one were to stop and read every sign, they wouldn’t have the literary bandwidth left to read more than tweets. (I may just have solved a mystery that’s been driving me cynically insane.)

But sometimes, one really should read the signs. For example when threatening the corporal well-being of someone who is doing nothing wrong, nor inconveniencing you in any way whatsoever. Or, when the signs are just plain awesome.

Wait, what don't you want me to do, tuktuk driver in Sri Lanka?
The hoodie mafia flashing....gang signs?...is extra credit.