Columns » Bob Lancaster

Sick list

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I'm bedfast, laid low by a mysterious and elusive ailment, and I asked for sick leave this week. Editor Phil D. Hole, denying it, said: "Sick? Sick of what?"

I suspect a slow-working animalcule, holed up in a gut or organ cavity or innard-lining, but I'm no diagnostician and I saw the opportunity here to make a broader, more existential riposte.

I'm sick of the politicking, I told him. Sick not so much of having to follow it as of it following me. Haunting me, to speak seasonally. Dismal.

Sick of the requisite posturing. Sick of the lying liars and their lies.

Sick of scenarios.

Sick of narratives.

Sick of spin.

Sick of snark.

Sick of the rodomontade.

Sick of the phony baloney.

Sick of the mean-spiritedness.

Sick of the insincerity that inheres in playing to the base.

Sick of the stupidity.

Really sick of the stupidity. So stupid that resistance is futile, like with the Borg, and you just have to shake your head.

Sick of reading puff where there used to be news.

Sick of the bloviation.

Sick of the strut of exceptionalism.

Sick of the pencil-neck geeks.

Sick of surrogates surrogating, or whatever it is that they do.

Sick of the posse weasels.

Sick of think-tankery.

Sick of them that has, get. Get all that gets got.

Sick of dog-peter gnats getting in the sorghum molasses.

Sick of muddy trucks.

Sick of quiet desperation.

Sick of the lurid fabulizing of latter-day saints.

Sick of squirrel dumplings (except that's about the only haute cuisine Maw remembers how to whomp up).

Sick of the constitutional sag — even your ear lobes, maybe especially your earlobes —that comes from too-long exposure to the gravitational pull.

Sick of it seeming like an Everest scaling just to climb a flight of stairs.

Sick of the uncalled-for belligerence of the fire ants.

Sick of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sick of the chewing gum losing its flavor on the bedpost overnight.

Sick of legislative doofi who want to execute rebellious children and bring slavery back.

Sick of the Purposelessness-Driven Life.

Sick of the Dark Age descending.

Sick of the squalor of violence, of no country for old men, of clown-haired gun nuts on shooting sprees.

Sick of nostalgia for the good old days of color-coded terrorism alerts, of huddling behind duct tape and visquene in the Homeland Security bobundmarthabunker.

Sick of Duggars, of mindless abandonment to unrestrained fecundity.

Sick of the weird sisters (I think it's Ann C., Phyllis S., and Michelle B.) cackling aboard their broomsticks while making low moonlit passes just above the chimney-tops hereabout, scaring the bejesus out of feebs, dogs, and trick-or-treaters

Sick of skew.

Sick of power surges, of power outages.

Sick of the riding mower shooting gumballs like Gatling gun ammo at postmen, meter readers, and litigious-looking passersby on the street out front.

Sick of the beeves staring dumbly over the pasture fence, not even dimly cognizant of why they are here.

Sick of fried-chicken homophobia.

Sick of pompous pundits that you know would rather be out sucking toes.

Sick of those ugly new game uniforms. (Where is Mae Horn?)

Sick of no class and of those who are stifled and angry because they can't just go out and buy some.

Sick of the new respectability afforded rape and rapists by political slinkards courting their vote.

Sick of this one particular hoot owl.

Sick of gouging at the pump.

Sick of just about everything Texican.

Sick of just about everything Huckabee.

Sick of just about every aspect of telephonery.

Sick of Negrophobia pretending that it's not.

Sick of flipflopping. And flopflipping.

Sick of those who think God needs their help.

Sick of the being taunted by blue jays.

Sick of road-hazard deer.

Sick of the schadenfreude when you don't hit the lottery either.

Sick of the contest between weddings and funerals to see which can cost more.

Sick of It is what it is.

Sick of my pyloric valve.

Sick of tilapia.

Sick of candidates bought and sold like hogs.

Sick of junketeers.

Sick of those who want to make everybody else's birth-control decisions for them.

Sick of the sanctimonii, of those who claim license from the Almighty to be insufferable pricks.

Sick of their fake tans.

Sick of the Ayn Rand bull dookey.

Sick of cowboy church.

Sick of superheroes.

Sick of employers threatening to fire employees who don't vote to suit them.

Sick of deadbeats being able to hit the reset button.

Sick of the Gator Boys and their less adventurous kin and ilk who mainly watch TV and drink beer while sitting shirtless on imitation leather couches in trailer-park doublewides, occasionally sniffing one another's armpits or taking time out to leash some rats.

Sick of the Third Reich analogies.

Sick of canards like the Apology Tour.

Sick of the free continental breakfast.

Sick of the Oxford American and its frathouse-like travails.

Sick of David O. Dodd and Confederate boy martyrs in general.

Sick of malware.

Sick of billing "fees" that can't be revoked or explained.

Sick of everybody who's in the military being called a hero.

Sick and tired, Fannie Lou described it, of being sick and tired.

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