November 4th is just a sneeze away and political sphincters nationwide have tightened in anticipation of what highly paid news commentators predict will either be “a landslide or a very close race.” To what do you ascribe such intelligence – head injuries or just born that way?

We are at that part of the election process that my fellow journalist Charlie and I refer to as the ‘kitchen sink’ phase. For the next week everything gets thrown by both sides. Anything goes. Nothing is out of bounds. Nothing is too exaggerated; nothing is sacred. Closets nationwide are laid bare as supporter’s frantically search for skeletons.

‘Why do politicians get away with this?’ you may wonder as you decide whether a trip to the dentist sans anesthetic or getting a certain body part caught in a zipper would be preferable to standing in line to vote. There is a very detailed and technical methodology involved that can be summarized in two words; ‘we forget.’

That’s right, once the victor is past the winning post, we collectively forget all of the muck that was tossed in the air in the final week, while the elected politician promptly forgets everything they promised during the entire campaign. That’s the way politics works and at the end of every election cycle some poor slob always seems surprised. The emperor, they may quite rightly point out does not appear to be wearing any clothes. But neither are we.

Try, if you will, reminding the newly elected of their last minute ‘swear to G-d and hope to die’ gold-clad assurances that still warm your seduced heart. “But Mr. New President, you promised to rid the world of poverty and war,” you gush like a child visiting Santa Claus.

You’ll be greeted with a haughty glance from the new President that wordlessly tells you that your reminder is as welcome as a fart in a space suit. Tackled by the Secret Service, you’ll be pushed off to an aide who will treat you as though you are stark barking mad. You’ll probably be locked up for life in some musty institution and never heard of again. The Senate, I believe it’s called.

This last week – oh the fun of it - is what separates the men from the boys and on this occasion, the woman from the girl. It’s a gut wrenching, chocks away, balls-to-the-wall, damn the torpedoes, all out f**k-fest of insults, put-downs and downright lies. That’s right, I said put-downs. That's how low it gets. It's not for the faint of heart. Good times.

So desperate are they that Obama would BBQ his dog, McCain would give up a month - maybe two - of his life, Biden would forgo brushing his pearly whites for a week and Palin would cut a deal with the devil if that would help.

Voting day over on the 4th, we are left with two candidates strung out like crack-whores on their respective sofas, insane with stress as the results come in. One smoking like an old truck on steep grade while the other wonders if at this old age he has a chance of getting cozy with Palin, just once, should he lose the night. Both wish they were wearing clean undies.

Hang on, the phone's ringing.  Beelzebub! It's Palin!