Let's Re-Elect Barack Obama.

Finally, it's almost time. Good God, are you ready for this thing to be over?

I know I am, but it's my own fault. I mainline so much of this political stuff, I'm having trouble finding a vein these days.

Ever since Chief Justice John Roberts' stammering oath billowed wisps of partisan divisiveness into that frozen January sky, the 2012 election season has burned like a crusty coating of eyelid eczema.

And I've been out of lotion for four years.

Maybe it's because I live in a state where we cast our votes solely through the infrastructure of the United States Postal Service. Perhaps I'm concerned that the extinct ritual of closing the curtain and turning the crank in a room filled with volunteer octogenarians smelling of crock pot chili, will lead would-be voters down a trail of apathy and inaction.

What a shame it would be for those who mail it in to "mail it in," you know what I mean?

So I'm going to try to lay it out one last time, on the oft chance that you haven't yet decided. No judging.

Granted, the differences in presidential candidates are starker than they've ever been, and the only reason I can imagine that you can't make up your mind is that you've been listening to "Dave Matthews, A to Z" on the local classic rock station since March of 2010, and as soon as the extended jam version of "Stay" ends, you'll do a little research.

That's supposed to be around 2:30 on Sunday.

So yeah, let's talk about your choices. Oh, did I just use the word "choice"? Heavens to murgatroyd, what a great segue.

Mitt Romney considers personal liberty and freedom of choice as the cornerstones of his campaign. He reveres the promise of a truly free society with nearly equal vigor as the planet he will someday rule after transcending the veil of death and settling into eternity a mere seventeen light years from God's home planet of Kolob.

And you know that Ann— already taking little campaign side trips to Ikea to buy beds and rugs for when the grandkids finally die and can visit.

Anyway, Romney maintains that maximum choice leads to maximum benefit:

We should be free to choose our kids' schools, and therefore, a government voucher system should be established. Although private schools will then be subsidized, leaving precious little to a public education sector already in crisis, things will somehow work out. A massive undereducated cross section of America will then be free to utilize their talents in manufacturing cheap goods for poverty-level wages. Unemployment will drop drastically.

Boom.

We should be free to choose our doctors, and by no means should insurance companies be denied the profit motive. Shareholder wealth will seep through the cracks of capitalism, benefiting both the uninsured and those with pre-existing conditions.

Like he said, it's all about choice. Stop smoking and eating fast food, fools. You're free to scarf down fourteen Reese's on Halloween night and wake up with a zit on your forehead that looks like Willy Wonka, but take care of yourselves and you won't need to wait for six hours in a cold emergency room. It's your body, after all.

Bam.

Oh yeah, except when it comes to reproductive rights. Then it's not your body anymore, it's his—his and those other old, white dudes who use terms like "legitimate rape" and "the rape thing." Those are his buddies, so even though he used to be one hundred percent pro-choice, Romney has decided to weigh in somewhere around ninety-three percent in favor of that whole liberty thing.

Look, things aren't fantastic now, but they're certainly better than they were when Bush left office four years ago. Back in the forties, people branded Roosevelt a socialist when he enacted Social Security. Since then, the poverty rate for the elderly has decreased from forty-eight percent to twelve percent.

Medicare stirred up another commie-baiting shit storm during the 1960s, yet Lyndon Johnson helped reduce the senior poverty rate another seventy-five percent.

Conservative friends, I know you believe that we progressives defer to government to solve all of society's problems. We don't, but this health care thing isn't working. The United States is the only developed nation without a systematic plan to take care of its poorest and sickest citizens.

Romney claims to have a solution, but have you heard it? I haven't. Apparently, it's too long and too complicated to explain, according to Paul Ryan.

Well, here's an idea that's neither long nor complicated—Mitt Romney is the wrong guy for the job.

Let's re-elect Barack Obama.

President Romney? Excuse Me While I Lose Full Muscle Control.

And then there were two.

Well, okay, actually four, but I think the only reason Newt is still around is for the free grub at those rural Utah diners.

I can just hear that old fuzzy Muppet now: "Good morning, North Ogden! Hey listen, I understand that I may be disqualified from the Utah primary ballot since my five hundred dollar check bounced, but gee whiz, this strawberry rhubarb pie sure is tasty. Hey Callista, are you gonna eat yours? I didn't think so. Slide it over, babe."

And of course, Ron Paul's not going anywhere. He's stayed the course with his message, asserting that our Constitution upholds his freedom to accumulate fewer delegates than Mitt Romney's great-great grandfather had wives.

So yeah, we're down to the big dogs now—our President and the aforementioned Willard "Mitt" Romney are about to step into the octagon. But I'm going to try something new this time when comparing these battle-tested candidates, since in the past, my writing's been laced with subtle hints of liberalism.

Oh hell, as my great uncle would say, it's downright commie horseshit.

I'm going to analyze the competitors based only upon the merits, solely on platforms which they've firmly established through years spent in realms both private and public. Let's begin.

Core beliefs on faith:

Barack Obama—while some stubbornly maintain that the President was born not of our nation and was raised Muslim under the radical tenets of an Indonesian madrassa, he is actually a Christian and a former member of the Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago. He keeps his current church private for the safety of his wife and daughters.

Mitt Romney—while some, including the former Massachusetts governor, stubbornly maintain that his Mormon religion is a form of Christianity, others contend that Christianity's belief in heaven and hell contradicts the three levels of Jesus' kingdom which Mormonism proscribes.

Romney has chosen to go all-in on a belief in the celestial kingdom, the terrestrial kingdom and the telestial kingdom, a three-storied condo, hopefully with a car elevator.

Oh, yeah, and the whole Book of Mormon thing was supposedly transcribed by a former snake oil salesman turned prophet, who enjoyed smoking the weed. Lordy, if I had a nickel for every Book of Mormon my friends and I came up with during college...

Core economic beliefs:

Barack Obama—Dating back to his earliest days as a community organizer, President Obama has focused on empowering the poor, in providing resources to the least fortunate under the auspices that "a rising tide lifts all boats."

Mitt Romney—Dating back to his earliest days at Bain Capital, Romney has focused on consolidating wealth through purchasing corporations, gutting and outsourcing their workforces and selling them at a profit for maximum shareholder return.

His infamous proclamation, "Corporations are people, my friend," illustrates that in Mitt's opinion, "trickle down" means it's fine for a corporation to piss all over its employees.

Formative years and exposure to American society:

Barack Obama—Raised by his grandparents and single mother in lower middle-class households, Obama experienced the daily life lessons which exemplify the challenges and struggles of ninety-nine percent of America.

Mitt Romney—Raised as the youngest son of American Motors Company president George Romney who later was elected governor of Michigan, Mitt attended Cranbrook, a private preparatory school and formed early bonds with a privileged progeny of corporate moguls. He met his future wife Ann while she attended Kingswood, the sister school to Cranbrook.

The dossiers continue to paint portraits of disparate worldviews, like Romney's desire to repeal Roe vs. Wade and his reluctance to release his personal income tax returns, which Obama has revealed back to the year 2000.

Okay, and here's the last thing. Barack Obama is just a likeable man, the kind of guy I could sit with over a nice IPA and NFL playoff game. Okay, that's not fair. I suppose I could have a beer with Mitt Romney, no wait, a coffee, no wait, a nice glass of water, no wait, a Perrier.

Forget it.

Should Palin Debate Obama? You Betcha.

Snubbed.

We've all experienced it. During our time on this big blue marble, we've suffered the blows of being rebuffed and rebuked, rejected and repelled.

We've been told to sod off, to take a long walk off a short pier, to shut up, pipe down and go away.

And it sucks. It sucks to be dismissed and devalued, because it doesn't take long before we begin believing those who marginalize us. Yeah, maybe my true station in life is perched right on the knobby area of society's cold shoulder; perhaps it's time to stop running this fool's errand of contrived self esteem.

Okay, maybe I'm a little sensie-poo regarding this topic, because, as I've mentioned at least eighty times, I was a fat kid.

Young boys, when playing young boy games, tend to place a premium on athletic ability and a discount on wit and intellect. The slow, small and corpulent are the chaff of the playground; they're the club who familiarly stand elbow to elbow along a chalky line of shame after all the others have been drafted ahead of them for the recess soccer game.

"Go ahead. You can have the rest of them," one captain would often announce to his counterpart as we remainders silently lamented our status. I vividly recall feeling like one of the sinners in the "Left Behind" series, only the reason I stayed on Earth was God's inability to heft a body mass index of thirty-five or above into his infinite bosom.

Rejection assumes a confusing tint when we're not sure why we've been snubbed. During college, I wondered why girls sometimes didn't want to dance with me. Come on, all I was requesting was a three minute conference between her, Spandau Ballet and me.

"Oh, sorry, I need to find my friend," was the most common smackdown, but occasionally I'd get, "Oh my God. Dinner's almost over back at the sorority and I've got bathroom duty this week and I've got to get back in time to hold hair. Sorry!"

And now it's time for my carefully-orchestrated, totally lame segue, combining clueless sorority behavior with bald-faced rejection.

I couldn't help but feel for our old friend, Sarah Palin, this past week, when, in a nearly six-hundred-word diatribe posted to her Facebook page, Palin challenged President Obama to a debate "anywhere, anytime"  to discuss "the issues Americans are actually concerned about," including "an anti-drilling agenda that rejects good paying energy sector jobs and makes us more dependent on dangerous foreign regimes."

Shouldn't this woman, who came within a mere three-and-a-quarter-million votes and a frozen Hades of the vice presidency, be allowed one little debate with our commander-in-chief just to settle the score?

After all, Mrs. Palin humbly requested an opportunity to address the nation on election night, only to be rebuffed in favor of a concession speech delivered by the man whom she carried for all those months, John McCain.

Gracefully bowing out of the political arena to crop dust the field of punditry with her blistering world view, she selflessly extended her reach to a knowledge-thirsty demographic—the reality television audience.

Despite Palin's heroic efforts to team with reality royalty Kate Gosselin, her show was canceled after just one riveting season.

America just wasn't ready.

Now, after all she's been through—the impossible-to-pronounce teleprompter words, the School House Rock Constitutional Crash Course, the endless green room waits while hounded endlessly by Todd and Twig or Twine or whatever that kid's name is—doesn't Sarah Palin deserve an opportunity to spar with the very man she chose not to defeat this November?

Nah.

Confidence is sexy. But please keep your shirt on.

A couple of evenings ago, my nuclear family and I settled in over a table of Greek salads and bread, complimented by some powder blue Safeway napkins with pleasantly quilted patterns.

As has been a more frequent topic of late, the upcoming school year reared its head again. My wife asked my sixteen-year-old daughter if she would be agreeable to dropping off our younger girl for her first day of middle school, since parental drop-offs are so "elementary school."

"That would be cute of me," replied the elder sibling.

Cute of me? I hadn't recalled those words having ever been used together before.

"Did you say, 'That would be cute of me?'" I had to confirm.

"Yeah. I'm sure everyone would think it's cute for the big high school sister to drop off the little sister for her first day of middle school," she replied, narrowly avoiding dipping her hair tips into her vinegary salad bowl...again.

Commonly, when my teenager utters such arrogant statements, I'm rendered speechless as I was on this occasion. She's often so oblivious to her utterances that I really don't think she realizes how it sounds to those within earshot.

As she slowly pivoted her head back toward her food, my teenager's eyes screeched to a halt.

My wife observed the process. "You're looking at your arm, aren't you?"

"Yes. Wow, I'm really getting toned this summer."

Such confidence. It is obnoxious for sure, but nonetheless is a trait I've always admired. We live in a culture where we either muster up our self worth from within, or ride the bucking bronco of public opinion. Should we make the error in validating ourselves through others' opinions, we run the risk of feeling like something that that bronco squeezed out its backside.

When Barack Obama was elected, it seemed as if the entire planet Earth believed he could walk across Lake Michigan without getting his wingtips wet. But ultimately, Mr. Obama has proven himself unable to work miracles, such as healing both an already broken economy and an entire class of lepers known as the Tea Party.

Unwavering confidence is a must for any President. After all, can you imagine a moment when you're actually telling yourself, "You know what? I think I should be the ruler of the free world. Yeah, definitely. Either that or work at Costco."

But what about other lines of work where unbridled confidence is a prerequisite?

Professional boxer: Imagine stepping onto a roped off canvas in front of thousands of people, and you're not wearing a shirt? Okay, that's a dream I've had quite a bit, but in addition, you're supposed to pummel another shirtless guy into unconsciousness or just make him bleed so much he can no longer see. This would require confidence and probably not a lot of other job opportunities.

Navy SEAL: Someone calls you and some buddies into a room, where you sit in one of those school desk/chair things, and says, "We're gonna need you guys to get into a helicopter, fly secretly into Pakistan, kill Osama and pack up a bunch of his stuff, including his porn stash and Whitney Houston cassettes. Then bring the body back in the helicopter, mmmkay? Oh, and don't forget to use the Swiffer before you leave. Clean floors show that America has paid a visit."

Graphic designer: When a hundred-year-old company's future depends on one pixel moved to the left or right, I'm up to the task. And, I can perform while listening to Night Ranger. I'll stop there, since I'm sure you're already doubting yourself.

So before you ask your wife how you look in those short slacks and striped green tie, before you run the brown clogs and denim jumper by your husband, take a good look in the mirror. You don't need outsiders' validation.

You look good, and you know it.

Trump: "I woulda brung him back alive."

After this past weekend, I think we know who the grownups are.

We also know whom should be sitting at the kids' table.

I'll give Donald Trump one thing: at least he had, in his vernacular, the "bwalls" to show his ruddy face at Saturday night's White House Correspondents' Association Dinner. After spending years causing a ruckus with his cacophonous pie hole, he concluded last week at the top of his game, declaring himself in a dead heat with Barack Obama in the race for the 2012 Presidency.

Sure you are, Donald, and if I could drop eighty pounds and do a little waxing, I'd be Eva Freaking Longoria.

I realize that the human ego, especially male, can be blinding. But the fact that this guy considers himself to be a short-lister for leader of the free world (countries with at least five Wal-Marts) cranks the needle up past "insane" and "megalomaniacal" to "umm...security?"

But if it wasn't difficult enough for Trump to be mercilessly skewered by our President and a few others at the dinner, he was permanently demoted to the minors Sunday night, when Mr. Obama announced the killing of Osama bin Laden.

Hey Don, next time you comb your hair, just go a little further forward and all the way down your face, mmmkay? Thanks.

During the past several days, President Obama has displayed the moxie and cool that I only hoped for upon casting my ballot. Throughout that red herring expedition sponsored by the birthers and championed by Don, the President calmly tucked the issue into bed while planning the take down of the most prolific mass murderer of our lifetimes.

Talk about a poker face.

How does he do it? How does perform the every day duties of Commander-In-Chief, let alone shoulder the heavy burdens of war, health care, the economy and racist snipe hunts by people like Trump?

I have no idea how that job doesn't completely break a person. If I try to boil pasta while unloading the dishwasher, the stress causes acid reflux and acne on my inner thighs. And that's after lying in a dark room thinking only of a Pop Tart forest.

In addition to Obama, what about his family? I'm sure they're forced to endure many unwelcome obligations. I can just hear Michelle Obama saying, "Seriously, Barack, take the Prime Minister of Luxembourg to Ruth's Chris tonight and tell his wife I've got a migraine. I know you like him, but I'd be stuck with her. Remember, she has that condition where her eyes don't blink and she smells like bacon."

And what about the Obama kids? I'm sure he's been faced with, "Come on, Dad. No way are we spending three hours with the Sarcozy kids. They say mean stuff about us in French and all they want to do is play Lite Brite."

Naturally, every President since number one, the original George W., has weathered severe emotional storms. Some handled the pressure gracefully, while others sought outlets of distraction. I've heard that our President occasionally sneaks a smoke out on the veranda. Hey, do what you must, Mr. President.

I wonder if the Presidential Seal is affixed to the rusty coffee can he uses for an ashtray.

All I know is, Barack Obama has my vote in 2012. And to all you contenders, you can go through the buffet line first.

The kids' table is back in the rec room.