Mr. Rockwell Goes to the Local Township House to Vote

All you city folk might have voted faster and used fancier machines--always rush! rush!, you city folk--but I had the quaintest, cutest little polling place ever devised by Man.

Down my country road, turn onto another, even narrower country road, and park on the side (mind that ditch!). Walk to the ol' white clapboard (peeling, of course) one-room schoolhouse and stand in line behind your trucker hat and white shoes neighbors for your chance to enter the faded apple green interior and vote for the sinners, flip-floppers, baby-killers, and fags, you liberal whack-o, you.

It was so quaint, so amazingly Norman Rockwell, that I was actually inspired to make a quilt. And I probably could've gotten the thing half finished in the time it took to cast said vote. It took over an hour! Unprecedented, apparently, as I overheard (you couldn't help but overhear--that place is pretty small) some old-timers saying how it never took longer than 5 minutes before. Nevertheless, it was polite and neighborly. The woman checking names didn't even ask for IDs, even in the rare instance when she didn't know someone. Her grandson just got a kidney from her daughter-in-law. It was in the paper. Her son was my dog's vet. Small town.

VOTE!