(Commentary) I survived my first Jefferson Jackson Dinner in Des Moines last night. Well, sort of. I woke up this morning with a headache reminiscent of an alcohol-induced hangover, however, I drank only one Coke during my eight-hour political binge. So why do I feel like the animated Anacin hammer has pounded its way into my head, performing a coup d’etat on my surviving brain cells?
Good question. Instead of blaming the proverbial scapegoat, the alcohol industry, I’ll lay blame on the decibel factor at Veterans Memorial Auditorium — more specifically the legion of Hillary supporters planted behind me, who banged their yellow balloon sabers together every time Hillary ended a sentence on a stressed syllable. Every once in awhile, an overzealous Hillraiser missed a beat and one of the ballooned weapons of minimal destruction landed on the back of my head. Maybe this is what helped feed the Anacin allusion, eh?
Nonetheless, in the spirit of the late Norman Mailer, I must move on and pound the keys: Anacin