The billionaires who pass out the right-wing Kool-Aid are desperately trying to push the fantasy that they are going to act out Ayn Rand's novel, and leave us all to starve if we allow that Kenyan Socialist to raise their taxes by a couple of points. That's not what it's about of course. These people will still have more money than they could ever burn if they tried. They're really afraid that the middle class will realize they've been screwed and start wanting their country back.

Own a chain of mediocre restaurants that allow you to live in castle (literally) while you pay the help almost nothing? You might be paranoid about the peasants catching on that you aren't really entitled to do that. They are scared to death of Liberals because of the very meaning of the word. Liberal is short for Liberal Enlightenment, the idea that we all have a say in the society we live in. The idea that the rich and powerful aren't really the enlightened few who get all the rewards from our work because they are in charge.

The loose chatter of Romneysiacs is idling upward, as the gabblers feel their Wheaties, and are feeling especially well-armed with a bad case of Sore Loseritis, made worse by the brain-disengaging disease, Secessionist Fevers, aka Separation Anxieties.

In a word, give or take some Romney-voting states, the Old South wants O-U-T.

My first impulse is to be just as reckless in return, suggesting that all ten states, and all 100,000 petitioners in this idiot cause, be given a small, hyphenated phrase in blunt reply.  (No, I was not thinking of a biological impossibility, but that would be a most excellent guess.)  I was in fact thinking of this one:  Buh-bye.

You know, as in:  Don't let the screen door slap you in the ass on your way out, you bozos.

Texas -- who woulda guessed? -- has taken the lead once again, this perennial secessionist rose amongst all the states.  The petition from Texas has 25,000 ticked-off, sore-loser, Romneybot, racist Teabaggers fuming and steaming around in circles, back and forth, kicking any slow-moving small animals that accidentally get in their het-up way.

With the exception of flag officers having ego management problems, no veteran ever alive has expected to come home down a red-carpeted aisle.  Confetti, cheering crowds, and marching bands were never in the daydream, either.

But, then -- a backhanded cuff, a knee to the groin, and a karate chop to the jugular wasn't supposed to be part of the plan, either.

It's not quite what we do, and have been doing for decades, but it's figuratively close.  Of course, it gets worse than that, too.  Far, far worse.

Take the story of one man, Christopher DeLara, who filed for disability after his tour in Iraq:  The Army said it could find no records of him having been overseas.

Consider the plight of aging garments separated into heaps:  this one for fixes, this one for donation, this one for auction in Beverly Hills...

The signature dress worn by Judy Garland in the film, The Wizard of Oz, has been auctioned, bringing $480,000.  If that raises an eyebrow, consider this:  A similar dress, worn only in tests, last year brought almost twice that -- $910,000.

How are your eyebrows now?  Still holding up OK?  Think they might un-arch and relax by New Year's?  The explanation raised for the price difference is that only a couple test dresses were made, while there were at least seven made for use in the film.

One need be mindful we're likely talking bidders here who have exceptionally high requirements in the first place, to shell out that kind of loot on a 73-year-old dress -- and even higher, to differentiate between a test and a real dress.  In any event, the name of the buyer has not been revealed.

No matter how much we would like it to be so, not every news story in the known world can be about the entire nation bounding off budgetary bluffs and buttes, en masse.

Every once in a while, the news universe requires a massage of more than one or two of the Four Humours.  Take the lesser known of these, Potty Humour.

Oh, I know -- but it's been a dreadful week, reeking of stale politics, dank backroom deals, and damp gym shoes from being on the constant run.  So, kick back, let your socks air out, and give vent to a short, spleeny foray -- what the hey.

Besides, no matter how rough you think this patch is, just wait until we get back to The Impending Armageddon Doomsday Apocalypse of Falling off the Edge of the Financial World, aka The Great Fiscal Cliff Drop and Souvenir Nose Dive.

There is a bizarre irony involved for members of the clean-up crew, tracing the long street and avenue routes after a parade featuring elephants.  Oddly enough, crew members find themselves shoveling the same material from the back of the parade route as the GOP politicians were shoveling onto the crowds, up front.

Figuratively, figuratively.  At least, one hopes that is the case.  So, please bear with us while we keep sweeping up around here, trying to get all this... this... stuff off the streets and off our agendas.

For example:

Consider the plight of Romney campaign staff, heading home, exhausted, burnt to a crisp, right after Mitt's concession speech -- and discovering your campaign-paid credit card had been immediately shut off, leaving you reclining in a cab with a declined tab.