A certain stickiness pervades the atmosphere in the wake of the Comstockian Orgy this morning. Somewhere, America lies on a sweat-stained mattress, smoking a cigarette and contemplating what the pundits and the pruderiffic buffronters and buffrontatrices have done to it.
In the bathroom of the Collective Obnoxious, the tinny sound of pressurized water droplets striking tile and flesh emanates from behind the distorted showerglass and the steam of prurient gossip and watercooler jokery clouds the mirror of our National Virtue.
The discarded condom of our idealism lies, leaking on the linoleum of our Proud Victorianism and, downstairs, poor, uncomprehending Europe — to whom this mad psychodrama has been an unwelcome and cacophonous distraction — bangs on the ceiling with the broomstick handle of Sanity.
It has been a rough and noisome ride.