100 days

“Remain calm, stay cool, be collected,” said the tee-shirt of a pretty young lady at the park where I walk my dog.
“Only 100 more days to the election.”
It was last Sunday. I was walking my dog at nearby Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) — and the guy who wrote what’s in this website was ME.
I walked up a short hill after crossing the West Pond sluiceway bridge.
Three young ladies approached; one had the tee-shirt.
Talking to pretty young ladies doesn’t come easy for this kid.
I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations.
Hilda was my next-door neighbor growing up, and Sunday School Superintendent at my parents’ church, which she helped found.
She was ardently against men; they were filthy preverts.
So as a pants-wearer I was totally unworthy of female attention.
How she ever managed two sons by her chain-smoking husband I’ll never know. They musta been immaculately conceived.
I usually keep to myself, but how could I resist?
This election season has been depressing.
Noisy bombast and vitriol from one side. Stultifying conventionalism from the other.
“We’re gonna build a wall, and the Mexicans will build it.”
“America first; Muslims out.”
“I like Putin. I hope the Russkies find Crooked Hillary’s missing e-mails.”
We should hand over the nuclear codes to someone who will start Armageddon over a Tweet?
Has he read the Constitution?
On the other side it’s gumint-as-usual. Say the right things; placate all sides. Cut corners in Benghazi if needed,
“You got it,” I said. “100 more days of utter madness.”

• About 12 years ago, I was on the Board that administered Boughton Park, a voluntary position. During that time I created a  a brochure for the park.
• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” her maiden name.