Well, there we have it. Barack Obama is the 44th President of the United States. For the most part, everyone I know views this as a preferable outcome. One, for whatever reason, perceives Obama as a “dangerous charlatan.” Now, I’m not going to appeal to authority here, but the man is a former professor of constitutional law, wrote two books clearly outlining his core beliefs, and only recently paid off his student loans.

Espouse that fantastic land, that porous slate through terrible glade. Wisps swim to curl night among ether and silver shale–pale vortexes swept and sullied, inking silken scrawls for rend and rape of dreg and coughing man. Entail, so wroth be the wanderer, of platitude and tale spoken beyond listless temper. Echos or whispers or tide-battered bones slipped to steal unwary souls and filth and empty blood borne of order and contempt.

The EP looked through all the event monitor charts I’ve transmitted so far, and didn’t see anything particularly unusual. But he was looking for fast palpitations–basically tachycardia–where I flag anything that “feels weird.” If he’s not alarmed, I can only assume everything is “normal for me,” and move on, right? He wants me to come back a week after I return the event monitor. I don’t expect he’ll find anything odd, since I haven’t had any episodes since the 27th of September aside from lots of PACs and PVCs which are apparently insignificant.

So today at 8:30am, I had an MRI. It wasn’t as bad as last time, but it sure seemed louder somehow. The machine was much more recent–sporting a fancy LCD embedded into its doughnut badness–yet in the advancements it contained, apparently none of the engineers considered integrating sound dampening to avoid permanently deafening patents enclosed entirely within its grasping confines after repeated exposure to proximal squeals resembling a drunken hobo occasionally plucking the same frayed string on a “sweet” electric guitar he found jacked into a defective amp incapable of any setting below 100 decibels.

Hey Congress? Fuck every last one of you worthless shit-eating cock-mongers and the crippled, tumor-riddled horse you raped to the tune of Let the Good Times Roll while simultaneously flipping off a bus of nuns with a composite hand constructed entirely from freshly butchered kitten heads. What, the $25-billion you gave to the failing auto giants wasn’t good enough? Somehow the $700-billion bloated with an additional $110-billion in tax breaks, racetracks, wooden arrows, rum, and other miscellaneous detritus is more palatable than one lacking these accouterments?