Riff Raff in Sycamore

Last night, I spent some time with the common folk at the jail public hearing in Sycamore Township. I have never seen such a rash of humanity in all my life. I know that as a Democrat, I should believe in diversity, but let me tell you, dear reader, that some of the filthiest, most vile-looking people in the world were there.

And I'm not even talking about Heimlich or DeWine.

No, I'm talking about that greasy guy who limped up to the podium, barely able to see through his stringy, greasy hair spilling from his over-sized head. Worse, the Deputy Sheriffs on station to protect Simon Leis had to play "Moses" and part the crowd so that this lard-ass could pass through to the podium.

Finally, he gets up there and goes off on a rant about how his sister caught scabies when she served time in a Mexican prison a few decades ago, and how he's against jails as a general rule. Or something like that. Honestly, I dozed off because the whole affair was so boring.

Later I woke to find Bridget Doherty, my over-paid press secretary, staring at me from across the room, her blouse a bit-too-low-cut, and I found it somewhat disconcerting and off putting. I silently mouthed to her, "Why are you looking at me?"

She just giggled and twirled her hair. And kept staring. I couldn't figure out why she was staring at me. It made me very uneasy. I may have to fire her. The tension between us at the office is palpable anyway. She giggles nervously at everything I say. Quite frankly, it's weird.

When the meeting was over, she ran up and got into my personal space.

"I spoke with all of the reporters and told them of your vision for the county. They seemed interested," she said, as her eyes twinkled.

"Um...great. Thanks." I said.

"Do you want to go out and get a drink, maybe blow off some steam?" she asked.

"Er...ah... Thanks, Bridge, but I'm really tired. I was out late with Todd Portune last night. I'm going to head for home."

She looked disappointed as I dashed to my silver Audi and screeched from the parking lot. Then Todd called.

"Where's the party?" Portune asked.

I let him down easy. After hanging out with him and his walker the night before, I was tired. It's hard having to wait on him because he doesn't get around so well. I offered to push him in a wheelchair last night, but he was having none of it. Either way, I was worn out and told him so.

With that, I headed for my secluded basement sanctuary where I TiVo'ed all the news programs to see if I made it on TV.

As usual, there was only the usual crap. A few shots of Heimlich talking. A shot of Si Leis looking really pissed off. A shot of that greasy guy I mentioned (he looks better on TV). And then, for fleeting moment, I caught a glimpse of my yellow golf shirt in the background, behind Joe Deters, neck craning as I tried to turn my good side toward the camera.

But that was it. No mention of my 59-point plan to build a jail in Colerain, put casinos on the riverfront, and all the other brilliant ideas Gavin Newsome and I cooked up.

Damned media. Sometimes they don't even act like they want me to win this thing. Oh well... At least I can still count on the Enquirer.