As the Eve of Obamaween approaches, many stare at the stars in fear, few know what to do,... even fewer know why they are even looking up instead of looting their neighbor's shelled out clutter-factory of a short-sale home.
But onward the nation trudges, one day closer to destiny, one day further from the past. It is a solemn shamble. The road here is fraught with wry smiles and shrugged shoulders as crowds of the displaced mutter phrases such as, "Don't we have squatter's rights?" and "Where did I put my damn ukelele?"... alas, the darkness of Obamaween closes in around.
And even more ponder why Smallville has turned into such a terrible show, and why the WB had to go and change their moniker to the CW. Chaos is everywhere. There are Nyarlathothepian heroes, on both sides of the fence of fate.
But one thing is inevitable. Obamaween comes, in but a few short days. Will any live to remember the past? Will any survive the future?
Time will tell us many things, as time will remain in its own, serenely untouchable and conceptually neutral plain,... a dimension of site, sound and no taxes, where people lick daisies, and anyone who utters the word, "Obamaween" is fed to the SkizzaPuppy,... of fluffiest of the terrors beyond our known universe.
Great SkizzaPuppy, will you not help us fight off this,... this,... Obamaween?