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Doing the Civic Duty

This morning I grabbed BootzDog’s leash, clipped it to his harness and headed over to the public school around the corner. I like the place; early on Saturday mornings–weather permitting–I take a pair of roller skates, gloves, stick and a bag of pucks over there, to vent a week’s worth of frustration by blasting away at a stickball strike zone painted on the wall in the large, perfectly paved playground out back that most days I have all to myself. I wail away for about an hour, all the while grunting and cursing, imagining the pucks to be who or what I’m particularly pissed off about at the time. It’s way cheaper than sitting in a room with some shrink who I would very likely slap in the mouth or kick in the balls if I attempted “therapy” by talking to some douchbag I’m probably smarter than to begin with. Pucks are cheaper, and there’s no chance of them suing me.

This morning felt eerily the same. A creeping rage was building inside me as we ambled along Post Avenue. Bootz must have been aware of it, because he didn’t give me any of his usual “stop and sniff/piss” at every single tree, pole, etc. bullshit. By the time I reached the door I was in full-bore Howard Beale mode.

There was no line worth speaking about, and I was in the booth in a matter of moments. There was only one name in there that I actually wanted to vote for, Vito Fossella in CD13. That decision had more to do with Vito being a Staten Island boy while his opponent was some interloping BDS-addled Brooklyn asshole.

For everything else I voted against the incumbent or front runner. No to Spitzer. No to Hillary. No way on God’s green Earth to “Evil Eyes” Coumo. Down the list I went: “No. No. NO!”

Which meant that for the first time in my life, except for this guy, I had voted a straight Republican ticket. My father’s gotta be spinning in his patch of St. Peter’s Cemetary right now.

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