I can’t take this stuff seriously anymore. All I see are suits and suits and suits. The New York Times is the great-grandpa suits of suits. Your grandfather’s paper is still your grandfather’s paper. What one suit says to another suit. That’s always news. Not a single new idea. Some of us like to play We Are Suits but I am a mid-western Barn Boy. Pelosi is who we should be electing. Roll out the problems of the suits into a big Cleopatra carpet. Now, unroll it. Suits be popping out. Give me Ceaser or give me death, Ezra. Threads. Seriously. Kamala is playing it safe. Ezra is as safe as you can get. I hear the echoes of a tin can. I am so not going to vote. Why. Simple. Kamala is a suit and so is her friend. You can dress a suit up with another new suit, but the suit is still a suit. Sometimes the suits wear controversial stuff like a nametag. The democrat suits are going to lose. I was all out for Kamala. Excited actually. But there was something wrong here. She’s a suit. It hit me like god and a clap of thunder. Suit ideology. Suits like other suits. Last night, I threw my television out the window. I have to replace that window. I have overdosed. On suits. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.