A First Quarter Newsletter

Hey! Great to be back in front of your foxy eyeballs. My last post was back in '23, so I thought it might be nice to pull out the BIC ballpoint and get caught up. 

As Ross might say, a few things have pivahhhht-ed. At its onset, 2024 showed unmitigated promise. The year opened with my Huskies earning the college football silver medal following their greatest season ever. Just twelve days later, my baby girl was married in a ceremony that was so much fun, no more fun was available for the rest of the month. 

My wife came down with covid two days after the wedding, then I caught it. A week after that, just as things seemed to be returning to normal, I was laid off from a company I'd been with for 32 years. Shocking? Yes, like a bad dream. Surprising? Not really. Artificial intelligence is upon us, and it was apparently time for the robots to take over designing ads and emails. I can hear their metal fingers tapping the keyboard as they work silently in long rows. They don't take lunch breaks or waste time in the bathroom stalls because they don't eat. And go ahead and get rid of the Keurig because robots don't drink coffee either. So many wins. 

I've been hemming and hawing about further discussing my joblessness. It happened over two months ago now and I already thoroughly plastered it across LinkedIn and Facebook. Before that, I posted this cryptic IG story: 

A lot of you reached out in the ensuing days and weeks with words of encouragement and empathy. This was huge. I'd never been laid off before, and I really think I'd gotten to the point of considering myself unlayoffable, which I realize now was a little naive. Regardless of who we are or what we do, there's always a chance that the coach is going to want to see you in her office on a random Thursday morning. And yes, bring your playbook.  

I did finish the puzzle in late March:

And that's about it. Tragically, I learned that All My Children and One Life to Live went off the air a while back, so I'm working through how to fill that hole in my daytime life. I've been looking for jobs, both freelance and otherwise, and collecting unemployment. Life's not too shabby. I've had the time to go for really long walks and write a little bit more. In fact, since you are a loyal reader, I'll let you in on this headline I wrote for the Needling that I didn't really tell anyone about since it's, well, inflammatory: 

Like I said, I just came up with the headline, but the whole article is here.

To close out, here are a few more fake headlines that were not selected. You might notice that I was a little salty about the way things shook out in college football:

• New UW coach Fisch vows to give Huskies the best months of his life.

• South Lake Union poodle fed up, leaves Instagram.

• Overworked mom enters transfer portal.
• Coach DeBoer sidelined with sexually transmitted infection after fucking so many schools.
• WSU to have bake sale for football team Thursday night at the Elks Club. 

• New Carnation Amphitheater hopes to compete with larger venues by also making your departure a living hell.

• Banned from sheriff's association, Loren Culp fine with just being the town drunk.
• Citing years of futility, Mariners petition MLB for aluminum bats and an extra outfielder.

I hope you're doing well. Take care of yourself and try not to think about the election yet.

I can say that? Okay!

It's been a while! Good to see you again, at least in a figurative sense. Last time I checked in was August and now look at us, already nestled in the lardy perineum between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. I'd like to say I've been too busy to write, but please, if I can find the time to consume all twelve seasons of Evil Lives Here in a single fortnight, I can probably pound out a blog post or two. But enough with the self-debasement (put that in de basement). I actually have been writing, but it's been in pursuit of a different objective, namely fake journalism. 

Chances are you're familiar with The Onion, a satirical website that parodies current events through the guise and format of a real newspapers, but without bylines. To illustrate, here's a headline from last week: Leonardo DiCaprio Tears Fabric Of Universe Apart Attempting To Have Sex With Girl Not Yet Born.

Kind of edgy and inappropriate, yes? Also right up my alley. And as luck would have it, Seattle has its own version of The Onion, focused predominately on Seattle and the PNW, but also with the occasional piece centered around a national issue. It's called The Needling, Seattle's Only Real Fake News. 

Started five years ago by Lex Vaughn, former real reporter for the Seattle Times and winner of the actual Pulitzer prize for her coverage of the Oso Mudslide, The Needling was born when she decided to combine her love of comedy with some formidable journalistic chops.

Even though it's been around since 2018, I was oblivious to The Needling's existence until last spring. But when I discovered that they accepted headline pitches from the general public, I immediately became Lex's worst nightmare. Having been a serial maker-funner-of all my life, I now had an outlet for all things emanating from the darkest, most warped corners of Tim's Funnytown. 

Not knowing if I'd even be in the ballpark, I submitted these headlines for last May's upcoming news stories:

Seattle is the fastest growing city in the US, especially since starting puberty over the summer.

Drivers in Seattle swerve, honk and say what the fuck in honor of World Bicycle Day.

(For Father's Day) Local dad hugs kids, says you can never have enough WD40.

Mother confirms that Father's Day is every day when it comes to husband Larry.

Gen Z to observe two consecutive Sundays this Sunday.

Rep. Jim Jordan to wrestle child for Ohio children's charity.

Meta users found three times less likely to hold a train of—

Local militia hosts weenie roast fundraiser for member who blew penis off.

Mariners run out of shades of blue, move on to various orange tints.

Lex replied a couple of days later (and who do you think was Mr. Happy then!), saying that the Mariner headline was a strong candidate for a story in The Needling. Naturally, I dropped everything and wrote up the story, using the journalistic format that is required for these types of stores.

Mariners Run Out of Shades of Blue, Move On to Various Orange Tints

Having exhausted every shade of blue following the unveiling of their “city connect” uniforms, The Seattle Mariners announced an “exciting new direction” in color scheme on Wednesday.

“Our new orange shades may seem random to some of our fans,” said Andy Hockinson, Assistant Director of Excess Marketing, “but they’re so much more than that. Once a week for the rest of the summer, our players will be wearing a different ‘Salute to Eastern Washington’ uniform. We call them our ‘Eastside Burner’ unis, where every shade of orange is from an actual wildfire. Monday’s outfits get their vibe from the 2015 Chelan Wolverine blaze. Simply put, they’re breathtaking.”

While shifting color palettes have become commonplace for many major league sports franchises, the Mariners believe they’ve set themselves apart by tapping into the dramatic hues of natural disaster. “This is only the beginning,” said Stacey Shawcey, Mariners Vice President of Customer Engagement. “We’ve got a Seattle Fault Tsunami colorway all ready to go—sort of a muddy, grey, murky look. God forbid something like that ever happens, but let’s face it, the kids are gonna want that merch.”

Shaw said the Mariners will be having some great promotions to coincide with this summer’s Salute to Eastern Washington series, including Monday’s game against the Rangers where the first 10,000 fans will receive “Matt Brashfire” bobbleheads. First pitch is at 7:05.

Ultimately, this story wasn't meant to see the smoky, filtered light of day. It didn't quite clear the gauntlet of editors and reviewers needed for publication, but that was okay. I'd now at least made the list of contributors that received periodic emails from Lex containing prompts of upcoming local and national newsworthy events. All summer and into the early fall I pitched headlines):

To celebrate National Coming Out Day, Elon Musk reveals that he's been an awkward douchebag his whole life.

Crowd cheers as children chase off Seafair Pirates once and for all.

WSU football coach excited about joining "crazy talented" Texas high school league.

Death Cab for Cutie adds afternoon show at Fife Senior Center.

Citing lagging exchange rate, Canadians only 84% sorry for exploiting indigenous peoples this Thanksgiving.

FDA lists Big Mac as most effective over-the-counter laxative.

Florida voters approve less cumbersome non-sex offender registry.

Bezos moves to Florida because that’s where all serial killers go at the end.

Bezos moves to Florida to constantly be closer to Blue Origin penis rockets.

Bezos wants Seattle to know that he appreciates you. Not.

Local dog laughs off frightening misunderstanding about Veterinarian's Day.

Colon health nonprofit pushes for name change to Brown Friday.

New Seattle mental health response squad thinks it would be cool to dress like Fantastic Four.

Apple Cup to Kick Off at 1:00 Because That's When Most WSU Fans' Edibles Will Kick in.

Seven Handmaids Escape Washington Commanders Team Hotel During Loss to Seahawks

Local Third Grader Really Fucking Stressed About Parent/Teacher Conferences

Federal Way Dad Suffocates on Jolly Ranchers in Heartbreaking Attempt to Finally Finish Off the Shitty Halloween Candy

Then in October, I hit paydirt. Rather than pasting the whole article here, I figured you could just click on the link if you want to read it:

Climate Pledge Arena to offer a hot dog, small drink and kick in the throat for $49.99

I'll tell you, when I found out this one had made it through the gauntlet, it felt like Lorne Michaels had green-lighted my sketch idea. I was elated, and I'm so grateful to Lex and her crew for entertaining the questionable material that typically performs in my brain before an audience of one. 

More to come, hopefully.

Hollywood Makes Noah's Ark: The Original Love Boat.

It's really too bad this movie isn't coming out in time to battle that annual bloodbath, the war on Christmas. Some really huge oars could come in super handy in spanking back the secular happy holiday heathens. Better late than never, I suppose.

The official trailer of "Noah" was released Thursday. Here, have a look see:

Could Hollywood have picked a more rugged, yet virtuous, yet foxy slab of fillet manyon to portray the six-hundred-year-old dry land seafarer than Russell Crowe?

No way. The guy barely looks 480, which apparently back then was the new 350. Plus, the dude had three kids after age 500, and this is way prior to the nurturing palm of four-hour pharma.

And Anthony Hopkins as Methuselah? Brilliant. In this flick, he wields his evil freely; no need to slurp his human sweetbreads and Chianti through this oppressive apparatus:

According to Genesis, Chapter 5, here's how the whole thing started:

The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time. The Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was deeply troubled. So the Lord said, “I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.” But Noah found favor in the eyes of the Lord.

Until I read this, I hadn't realized that God actually experienced buyer's remorse twice. The first time, Adam and Eve had barely exchanged phone numbers before she screwed everything up with what became known in Eden as "The Dangling Nectarine Affair." I know, right? Freaking women. I could be sipping a mojito, naked by the pool, if it weren't for that ditzy skirt.

Leave it to a man, Noah, to cut our losses and gain a smidge of political capital with the big guy. If it weren't for this righteous bro, we wouldn't have been allowed to continue our suffering for millennia to come. Please find a time in your busy day to thank our man, Noah.

Will the mega studios tackle any other of antiquity's historical events? I hope so. They've already nailed The Ten Commandments, employing every aspiring Caucasian actor in the process while perfecting the art of spray bottle bronzing. For Hollywood's followup, Chuck Heston, after being offered the role of John the Baptist, told director Goerge Stevens, "Goddammit, George! I'm freaking Moses! If I'm not cast as JC, this script better be the greatest f*cking story ever told." 

The rest is history, except for the "f" word. The Greatest Story Ever Told, released in 1965, was nominated for five Oscars, propelled to greatness by Pat Boone's riveting performance as a celestial being at Jesus' tomb. Just call him angel…of the hairpiece, angel.

A dark side exists, however, to these Hollywood sagas of real men executing God's blueprints. Naturally, anytime these amoral liberals get their fingers in the money pie, they'll pursue the booty at all costs. We, as the pious messengers of the word, must remain ever vigilant in rejecting the snake oil of blasphemy.

I hold aloft the robust souls who risked public scorn to speak out against the popular Harry Potter series as blasphemous drivel. What an abomination it is to pollute our children with stories of other children who selflessly defend their families and friends against the dark lord.

It's a twisted message they send, and I truly hope Daniel Radcliffe and Emma Watson enjoy the worldly goods they've accumulated on this big blue marble, since they don't allow carry-ons on Hell Airways.

What's that you say? Emma Watson is also in Noah's Ark, playing the role of Noah's adopted daughter Ila?

God bless her. She's obviously repented.

Fly on the Wall: The Presidential Conversation You Weren't Supposed to Hear.

At last, a legacy congeals into actual brick and mortar.

Dang, it's about time; the world has teetered on pins and needles long enough.

Located upon a twenty-five acre spread on the campus of Dallas' Southern Methodist University, the George W. Bush Presidential Library and Museum is slated to open April 25.

And according to the numerous sources I've dug up with the oxidized metal detector that is Google, President Obama and his four living predecessors-in-chief will also drop in to the hoedown for the slow clown.

By the way, why is it necessary to point out that all former presidents attending are still alive? I'd hate to see what Nixon looks like these days.

I'm guessing that Bill Clinton, Barack Obama and Jimmy Carter will probably sit together and pretend to save the seat next to them for Al Gore, the man actually elected president in 2000. Naturally, Gore won't show, but now they'll have a little buffer so George the Elder won't nestle in and hear the dirt they're dishing about the child he probably wished he'd left behind.

What I wouldn't give to catch a whiff of their confidential vitriol. Oh, well, let's just imagine, shall we?

Obama: Afternoon, gentlemen. Great to see you two. You're looking fit, Jimmy. Building houses for poverty-stricken families across the planet suits you…doggone it, look at those leathery hands of yours. What are you now, a hundred and seven? Granted, what you're doing doesn't achieve the same lofty altruistic heights that painting puppy portraits does, but you're no spring chicken, either. Heh, heh!

Carter: Well, you know, Rosalynn and I do what we can. Holy Christ, those Texas crickets are loud!  Are they coming from that field over there or inside the head of that mouth breathing peckerwood we're honoring today?

Clinton: Easy there, Jimmy. You and I are southerners, too.

Carter: And from what I understand, Bill, you asked an intern or two to move south, if you know what I mean.

Clinton: Touché, my friend.

Obama: Can you believe this place is a quarter of a million square feet? Damn. Maybe they should just move Gitmo here. Then they can just execute them all—you know—being Texas and whatnot.

Carter: I can't believe it's the second largest presidential library. The only book the guy read in eight years was My Pet Goat, and I'm not even sure he finished it.

Clinton: Touché, my friend.

Obama: Yeah, well it's also a museum. It's gonna have the bullhorn he used at the Twin Towers and Saddam's revolver. Cheney suggested they be displayed together! Heh, heh!

Carter: Good one, buddy. Where is that Cheney, anyway? At his vacation bunker?

Obama: I heard he's pissed that there isn't a waterboarding station where you can get your picture taken like when you're riding the Six Flags roller coaster. He's not coming.

Clinton: Okay, let's cut out the smack talk, eh, gents?  This is a library, after all, and educational institution meant to both celebrate and enlighten. As George himself said in 2004, "the illiteracy level of our children are appalling."

Carter: You guys always make me feel so much better. Oh, looks like we're getting started. I knew I should have peed earlier.

How Well Do We Really Know Each Other?

It's been a while, now.

As of this juncture, I've been hurling my half-century-old carcass through the blogosphere for three years plus some change.

And throughout four hundred and fifty three posts, I've offered unsolicited insights into my worldview, submitting these thoughts while clenched in a perpetual kegel of misplaced paranoia.

Okay, that's a little much, but I do appreciate your patronage and care what you think.

So, as a small test of your loyalty, I've decided to play out a fictional scenario to see how well you've been listening. Since I've hung my wife and daughters out to dry more often than June Cleaver with a Clorox jug full of clothespins, I'm going to spin a yarn involving every member of our tribe, and you must decide which statements ring true and which qualify as slanderous ridiculousness.

If you can find at least one falsehood, I commend you and your vigilant readership. Let's begin.

I arrived home after a long, yet satisfying day spent brainstorming new baking recipes for the dispensary. My wife greeted me at the door, assisting me in peeling off my threadbare, yet favorite, Count Chocula hoodie and hung it neatly in the closet.

She pecked my cheek and carefully re-arranged my comb-over, finally stepping back and asking, "Hello, foxy guy. How was your day?"

"You know, it was really nice," I replied. "Nothing beats a nice modified Toll House cookie recipe for helping Americans deal with their chronic pain. For you see, dear, the good lord has chosen that I should be a healer."

"Yes, he did. I married the right guy, that's for sure." She straightened her apron, turned and cheerfully bellowed, "Girls. Your father's home! And dinner's ready!"

As I scooted my chair in to my customary position at the table's head, I glanced into the kitchen, where my bride readied the final touches on a promising repast. "And how about you?" I queried. "Still being hassled by those derelict kids at school."

She exhaled deeply. "It just keeps getting worse. Two of my fifth graders fell asleep today. After I woke them with the super soaker, which, by the way, was the most thoughtful of birthday gifts, I asked one of them why he had nodded off. He said he was up late playing video games because his single mother was working her second job cleaning office buildings and he didn't have anyone to put him to bed."

"What do you want to bet she's an illegal," I offered.

"Of course she is. And let me tell you, she won't be cleaning offices in this country much longer if I have my way." She set the casserole down on two of her famous hand-crocheted pot holders. The heavenly aroma of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup toyed with my senses. "And if they can afford an X-Box, they can afford a good immigration lawyer."

I placed my linen napkin across my lap. "Amen, sister."

"Hi, Dad." My seventeen-year-old daughter kissed my forehead and settled into the spot to my right. "Is it okay if I clean the basement after dinner? It's really been bothering me."

I playfully slapped her face with the back of my hand. "Oh, I suppose. Hey, by the way, did you notice that our Mitt Romney for President sign has been stolen from the front yard?"

"I did, Daddy." My twelve-year-old entered through the kitchen, sliding a frosty martini to my dinner plate's two o'clock. I couldn't help but marvel at what a great little wife that gal is going to be some day. "I'll bet the gay couple down the street swiped it. They're always causing trouble."

I gingerly sipped the sweet liquor—so soothing. "I'd bet dollars to donuts you're right, honey. You stay away from those people. Now go wash up. It looks like you've gotten a little gay on you. Heh, heh!"

"Oh, Daddy. Can I dish you up some tater tot casserole?"

"Absolutely. I've been thinking about this all day."

She scooped a heaping pile of the steamy hot dish onto my plate. "Hey, Dad, is it okay if I go to a rave on Saturday night? I'm not sure where it is or how I'm getting there or how I'm getting home."

"I suppose," I said sternly. "But you have to promise to leave a couple candy necklaces on the table for your mom and me, or no deal."

"Oh, Dad, you're so strict."

"Life is about rules, sweetie. And the sooner you realize that, the better."

At length, we ate quietly, but a look of concern betrayed my older daughter's face. Finally, she spoke.

"Dad, we've been learning a lot about evolution in my biology class. It really seems to make sense, but I know it's not true. What should I do?"

I thought carefully, since knee-jerk reactions only apply to the weaker sex. "I'll tell you what. I'm going to let you take my handgun to school tomorrow. If that biology teacher of yours wants to spout any more lies, you tell her that Smith and Wesson disagree and show her the business end of that thing. I guarantee she'll tell the class the world started when Reagan was elected. Ha!"

"Dad, you're so smart."

At the opposite end of the table, my wife's eyes welled up. "We are the luckiest ladies in the world, girls. God has truly blessed us with your father and his profound wisdom."

I drained my martini and stifled a belch. "Thank you, honey. She's right, girls."

Bless the Beasts and Cabbage Patch Children.

Seriously, this couldn't have come at a better time.

After basking in eighty-one straight shimmering days of Pacific Northwest sunshine, I awakened at five-thirty this morning nearly as grumpy and sore as Jerry Sandusky after an evening horsing around with the prison tickle monster. Things were damp and things were dark.

Usually on Mondays, I drag my carcass, newly heaped in the weekend's toxins, through the throbbing florescent glare of the gymnasium lobby. Once inside the door, I'll do just about anything to forestall the anguish of an impending anaerobic frenzy.

And since I'd already memorized the fire exit diagram and Puget Sound YMCA location poster, a freshly printed item perched atop an easel beckoned my dilated pupils and encrusted eye sockets:

Did I say I was cranky? Yeah, I thought so. Yet sometimes the smallest gestures, the tiniest beacons, can morph your outlook from sour to super, from grim to vim, and by God, that's just what happened as I stumbled upon this poster in the lobby that the Y shares with a local church.

Finally, our furry friends can receive the same blessed Godscreen SPV 50  the rest of us have been slathering on this whole time.

If our lord and savior can ensure that Tim Tebow runs for a first down as a reward for pointing skyward, why can't my one-toothed cat Leo receive a little unwavering heavenly intervention? Could a quick nod to JC possibly spare him from yakking his profoundly undigested Little Friskies grilled veal spleen into the crevices of our steamy baseboard heater?

Well?

In 2006, Star Jones claimed she was spared certain death from the devastating Asian tsunami thanks to her devout faith and prayer.

And of course that thirty-day gap between when she was there and when the thing hit. But still, you know, let's not split hairs when it comes to divine intervention.

Pat Robertson prayed during the Bush era for Supreme Court vacancies and his request was granted.

Sure, John Roberts cast the deciding vote in favor of Obamacare, but how is it God's fault that Robertson wasn't more specific?

Convinced of her personal status on God's VIP list, supermodel Linda Evangelista once proclaimed, "It was God who made me so beautiful. If I weren't, then I'd be a teacher."

Well said, but come on, she's way too smart to be a teacher.

I would like a little more information, however, about this animal blessing coming up on Sunday. It says it's okay to bless a dead pet. Sounds fantastic, although I had a cat named Simon, and I think he may have been Jewish. The last thing I want to do is pull a Mitt Romney and retroactively baptize him into another faith like the Mormon Church did with millions of dead Jewish people, including Holocaust victims like Anne Frank.

Yeah, no.

The lobby sign also suggests bringing a stuffed animal if you don't own a pet. That's cool,  but I am wondering if it's okay to have other stuffed stuff blessed— like is it plausible that God might reduce the fat content on Costco chicken bakes or various deep friend fair foods?

Because that would be awesome.

Anyway, I'm really stoked about this, and it's nice to have a full week to ponder all the live and inanimate objects which can now be engulfed with a condom of heavenly protection, thanks to Fauntleroy UCC.

And it's so wonderful living in Seattle, a place where Leo won't have a problem finding something nice to wear.

I Guess We Know What They Don't Want.

What are your core beliefs?

I know that's a pretty loaded question. Most of us have sort of a "belief pyramid," where our really intense convictions are firmly ingrained up top where the stonework can't get tagged with graffiti or some teenage boy's spent Copenhagen wad.

And then down near the ground, we've got beliefs which, while solid, can be subject to change, such as:

Sure, I definitely believe Farrah was the sexiest of Charlie's Angels, but if Jaclyn Smith had nestled up to a fifteen-year-old Tim on a rainy Saturday morning in 1977, he would not have ejected her from the premises for soiling his already crusty sheets with stale saltine crumbs.

While I firmly believe that Budweiser tastes only marginally better than one of my great uncle's asparagus-laced urine samples, I would not turn one down as a last grasp at pain management while attending a block watch party or one of Seattle's many dog funerals.

I believe that the music industry has hit rock bottom and I find today's artists slightly less appealing than my great aunt's pickled asparagus. Nevertheless, if someone waved free VIP tickets to a Beyoncé show, I'd squeal like a gerbil and immediately hop onto eBay for a good deal on an old gently owned mesh half shirt.

But wouldn't you agree that on certain issues, we just don't waver. We're pretty set in our core beliefs about religion, our children's education and of course...our politics.

Since I'm politically further to the left than Vladimir Lenin and George Clooney in the carpool lane, I thought I'd just take the temperature of the other side—those uptight, humorless, sexually repressed, hopelessly perverted folks whom I oppose with blurry eyed rancor.

No, not the cast of Jersey Shore. I'm referring to the Republicans.

Prior to gathering for their big drunk in Tampa a couple of weeks ago, a blue ribbon GOP committee hammered out the official 2012 Republican Party Platform. I'm not really sure what inspired these stuffy whities to bake up the most fascist hot dish since Mussolini tried his hand at Frito casserole, but boy, did they do Betty Crocker proud.

Here are a few of the core beliefs they submitted, tenets which the committee has advanced as non-negotiable stances of the Grand Old Party:

A Human Life Amendment, which bans abortion in all cases, including rape or incest. Leading the committee was Virginia's governor, Bob McDowell. I can understand why he opposed the whole incest thing. It would make him feel obligated to ask his mom/aunt and dad/uncle some pretty tough questions.

A salute to mandatory ultrasounds as prerequisites to abortions. A salute? That's weird in itself. They're basically saying, "Your punitive and unnecessarily invasive probe is wicked awesome!"

I wonder if they'd salute my idea, which would require men who want vasectomies to first be probed with a tapered tether ball pole. Probably not.

No legal recognition of same-sex couples. Does that mean it's okay to illegally recognize them, like while driving without a seat belt or shooting off bottle rockets?

No new taxes, except for war. Who can afford schools when, according to Mitt Romney, you're in a death struggle to keep up with the Soviet war machine? For all we know, at this moment they're developing a weapon which can take out every drive-through bay in America. Imagine actually walking into a fast food joint?

I understand, it's hard to think the unthinkable.

So, Republican friends, this question is for you: I know you don't necessarily subscribe to any or all of your party's platform.

But your guy does. Does he have your vote?