Would the Las Vegas of gay marriage also have two-for-one prime rib?

I've been a little edgy, lately. Big surprise, right?

It's like that feeling when your kid uses too much toilet paper, and they flush, and there's that moment when everything's swirling around, and you hold your breath and hope that your equipment can prove itself worthy of the challenge, dispersing all matter, both organic and otherwise, and permanently transferring ownership to septic Siberia.

Or, there's the other possibility: rising tide levels result in catastrophic flooding and a biological event demanding a plunger, towels, Lysol and possibly a post-traumatic, Silkwood-type decontamination shower featuring three to four SOS Pads.

That's how I've been feeling this past week; Sorry for the crass analogy, but I'm waiting to see where all the swirling shit will end up.

I suppose it started last Friday. Mitt Romney, pandering to his fellow tightie whities at this year's Conservative Political Action Conference, boasted about successfully prohibiting, as governor of Massachusetts, out-of-state gay couples from entering his state to get married and then returning home.

"On my watch, we fought hard and prevented Massachusetts from becoming the Las Vegas of gay marriage," Romney blustered.

It's a good thing no one tossed him a freaking football at that point, because he would've spiked it and leaped into a front row of flabby Caucasians ill-prepared to support his robust frame.

Yeah, nothing can chill a soul to its core, nothing can rattle a society's foundation, like a couple of women driving up from Virginia, getting married, spending two nights at the Worcester Best Western...and then leaving the state.

That was enough for one flush right there. But as I reached for the metal plated handle, another presidential candidate's sweaty palm slapped my forearm from its destination.

On Tuesday, Governor Chris Gregoire signed Washington's same-sex marriage bill into law, making my home state the seventh to afford gay and lesbian couples full marital rights. It was a proud day to be a resident of Washington and one I hadn't imagined would happen so soon.

But before you could say, "I now pronounce you Stan and Mike," guess who swooped into the Evergreen State to douse my warm endorphin blanket with a ham tin full of gelatinous piety? None other than the candidate who won't go away, Rick Santorum.

The guy is like eczema in a brown sweater vest.

Remember him? He's the dude who stated that allowing two people of the same gender to marry would crack open a Pandora's Box of biblical proportion—soon, men would engage in legal bestiality and women would elope with...I don't know...huge vats of salsa.

The former Pennsylvania senator spent the day offering his support to a crowd of pastors and '"values voters"(which is code for "I hope no one ever finds out what's in my computer") toward repealing Washington's sparkly new law.

And by the way, if some guy wants to marry a farm animal, they should be allowed to, for the animal's sake. I grew up near rural south King County, and after bearing witness to some long-term pairings, one of the parties didn't get much out of the deal and should be entitled some form of compensation.

Having Rick Santorum in such close proximity caused me to reflexively pull the lever, desperately desiring the swirling, soily soup in my head to disappear with a cleansing whoosh.

It's looking like the circling mass may not be eradicated until November, however, when the Roto Rooter van pulls up and a guy named Obama steps out, pulls up his sleeves and opens his toolbox.