Get Out of My Head, Campaign

This is the dream I had a few nights ago:

It’s Nov. 4 and I’m waiting on line at my polling place. The woman in front of me is whispering “hope, change, hope, change,” over and over again in a small, shaky voice. As usual, they’ve cranked the heat too high and I’m sweating beneath my fall coat.

“I just want to vote and get out of here,” I say to no one.

Flash forward and I’m in the voting booth, filling in the tiny bubbles of my Scantron ballot with a dull pencil. I jump, startled, as the curtain on my booth rips back suddenly and in walks John McCain. Only it isn’t really John McCain, but a wolf with McCain’s face. His pale, crinkly white skin is stretched out over the wolf’s head and snout. His lips curl up into a snarl and I can see the yellowness of his fangs. “Voting my friend?” he asks me, and I manage a weak nod before McCain the Wolf lunges for my throat. He knocks me onto the voting booth floor and I kick and scream as he starts gnawing my right arm, ripping the flesh away from the bone and sending blood spurting in every direction.

Just when I fear I’ll pass out from the pain, I hear a whirring sound, propellers. They’ve turned on a high engine fan, I think, to combat the grueling heat that’s flooded this polling place. Or to drown out my screams. But then I see it. Passing through the ceiling like an apparition, is a helicopter.  Sarah Palin hangs out of the side of the aircraft, dressed in a designer red blazer and Calvin Klein ski goggles. She reaches behind her back, pulls out a Tommy gun and opens fire. Bullets bounce off of the floor and walls of the booth. They ring against the metal table legs. I close my eyes and bury my face into the crook of my elbow, crying as the shots whiz by all around me.

And then suddenly it’s quiet. The pain in my right arm is gone. I can feel the numbness begin to set in and realize that McCain is no longer biting me. He is dead, shot down by Gov. Palin. I lie back in relief and see her standing over me, a wide smile stretching across her face. I know that I must thank her for saving my life, and so does she. Her smirk taunts me as I watch her visibly stifle a laugh.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, my stomach churning. I’m afraid I might retch. I struggle into a sitting position and grab the table for leverage to pull myself up. That’s when I feel it, my ballot. It’s sitting there on the table. I’ve already filled in my Obama circle. My vote has been cast, I just need to hand it in. “Thank you,” I say again, confidently this time. I’m smiling too now, delighted by Palin’s idiocy. I am still alive because she saved me. Still alive to cast a vote against her.

She winks, jumps into the helicopter and disappears back into the ceiling. I grab my ballot, and with my right arm hanging limp at my side, walk excitedly toward the exit table. “Here you go,” I say, holding my ballot out to the elderly woman sitting in front of me.

“You can’t turn that in,” she replies. “It’s full of bullet holes. It’s invalid.”

“Okay, then give me another one. I’ll just fill it out again.”

“Only one ballot per voter,” she answers, her voice flat. “Those are the rules.”

I woke up sweating.

Cleary, it’s time for this election to end.