Hooter's Gulch Has Spoken

So our curious process of pretending that people in small towns matter (especially when they can be bamboozled into voting against themselves) continues, with the six codgers of Petticoat Junction Dixville Crotch Notch voting for Martin Van Buren, or the earth-imprisoned shade of John McCain, whichever shows more moxie and or gumption.

Seriously, this tedious mothballed "tradition" is but a short-and-curly above the one where they pull the giant rat out of its cage in East Bumfuck, Pennsylvania (it is Pennsylvania, right?) and try to divine whether it sees its shadow or not. There is no practicality in exalting the troubled niches of snowed-in, homogenous micro-states in the service of "representative" democracy.

On the other hand, perhaps a few of our more impressionable folks bought into the Ike Turner treatment of the fair maiden Guinevere. Jesus. Gullible much, honey? Or has it never occurred that the best way to vote against the media is to turn it off and/or gang-fax them mercilessly. They'll fold like a cheap botoxed accordion, faster than Tweety can order three fingers of Bushmills (which sounds good right about now).