("Book of Joe's" recent entry on the Flatulence Deodorizer provides the perfect intro to this piece.)

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Well, I did it. Something I once swore I'd never do again: I voted for the Democratic presidential candidate. (Of course, since Colorado Springs uses electronic ballots with no paper trail, there's no way of knowing if my vote was recorded correctly, if at all, but that's another story altogether.)

I waited well over an hour in line before I was finally led to the voting booth. And I spent every second of that time swallowing the bile that was rising in anticipation of my casting a vote for Kerry, an internal struggle which made my stomach hurt so badly it felt like God had decided that, as much fun as straight fisting me was, it would be even more fun to rearrange my internal organs while He was up there. My stomach became so upset, in fact, that I developed the worst case of nervous gas I've had since the first time I thought I was going to lose my virginity. (And yes, my stomach made sure I didn't lose my virginity that night. Or the next time I thought I was going to either.)

I guess it's a sign of just how important this election is that the people voting with me were able to withstand the odor of rotting fruit that seemed to seep from my every pore. So putrid was the smell coming from inside my booth, I wouldn't have been surprised if one of my fellow voters had crawled under their curtain, choking and turning green while calling for the National Guard, who, if they weren't all currently deployed in Iraq, doubtless would have swarmed in, masks on and guns drawn, on the hunt for the source of this deadly chemical attack.

However, instead of the usual pleasure such public emissions give me, this time the noises and odors escaping my boxers only intensified the waves of nausea I was feeling. I stood there, staring at the screen, first at the Bush/Cheney box, then the Kerry/Edwards box, then, finally, the Badnarik/Campagna box. (He's the Libertarian party's candidate, of which I am a proud member.) I even briefly toyed with the idea of writing in my own name, but, sickened by the noxious stench emanating from my nether regions, decided against this tact, figuring if the simple act of voting made my stomach create odors unrivaled even by a truckload of illegal immigrants left to bake in the noonday Texas sun, how would I be able to handle the pressure of meeting a foreign leader?
Ambassador: "President copygodd, this is Prime Minister Blair."
Prime Minister Blair: "My word, what is that smell? Either someone's thrown up their haggis, or the Queen Mum is nearby."