I Promise Not to Tell You All of My Dreams

I had this weird dream last night that Joe Biden was visiting my parents’ house. I had this great question for him — “Can you tell me why there seems to be so little pragmatism on Capitol Hill?” — but before I could ask it, I spilled something in the powder room (potpurri? not sure.  I seemed to find bits of gooey mess that I had nothing to do with making, but the point is that both my father and his wife, are certifiably fastidious, so I was freaking out) and ended up spending the rest of his visit in there cleaning it up.

I could have been a contender. I could have been somebody. Instead of a clutz. Which is what I am.


Gas pipe, anyone?

How can I take a media seriously that refers to the process of choosing a vice presidential candidate as “the veepstakes?”

Chris Matthews made me throw up in my mouth Friday night when he opened his show by asking if a certain senator was “Biden his time.”  Ugh.  That’s professional writing right there, huh?

Then this morning I wake up to the New York Post headline: Joebama.

Enough already.