Make a statement.
Don't vote.
Don't even consider it an option.
Let's watch with delight as the percentage of those who vote plummets.
As politicians squirm to hold on to their last customers.
On a sinking ship.
Trying to explain how thirty percent is enough to get a clear picture of who the public wants to win.

The average hourly folks listen to morning radio personalities not cover relevant news but just turn dead air into base humor.

The world fills with more meaningless decidedly not unique humans. Lumps of flesh going about their business wearing masks, believing their life and love are special.
Too easy to negate everything. You can't justify negation just as you cannot justify God.
1. Start with faith in a God.
2. Test specific items against negation.
3. Die before finishing.

1. Start with utter negation.
2. Test specific items for meaning.
3. Die before finishing.

In each scenario step 2 will not produce positive results--that is, no specific items will be un-negateable. And nothing will be found to have meaning.

This doesn't mean, to be sure, that one should stop questioning faith or stop looking for meaning.
I will always quest for meaning; my brain needs something to do. My faith is simply that I will never find any. This faith also requires questioning.

"...in a disillutory fashion..."
-Senior Advisor to the President, Karl Rove

There I was thinking a pol used a word with which I was unfamiliar.
I'm sure he didn't say desultory. What is this word? I had to look it up. After several minutes I surmised that Mr. Rove, to my disillusionment, simply invented the word.
Apparently George W's penchant for semantic butchery is contagious, just as Clinton's people shared his speech mannerism of bouncing a pursed right hand to mark nearly every point. Because disillutory is not an acceptable variant of disillusion.

I love honking my horn at foot traffic.
This habit posesses me like my coffee addiction.
I revel in their response.
For that one split, singular moment, I own them--wallowing in the utter control over their nervous system.

My eyes catch sight of them, two folks walking on the sidewalk--heads down to withstand the cold, walking briskly to shorten their travels. This message is sent to the nerves controlling my hands and fingers. They press the horn button. Ears pick up the sound, relay it to recognition neurons which decide it is a horn. Curiosity piques. Several neurotransmitters fire in unisen like spark plugs--they all agree to quickly glance up at the source of this noise. Only to see me, at which point the entire process dies--like the male organ after sex.

For this one small moment of both of our lives, I own them. My actions dictate theirs. All that is required of me is a energyless movement of my hand. And I force their reaction.