I think I'm allergic to Kingman.
Here are my symptoms: Itchy, watery eyes. Congestion like wet concrete in the head and chest. Difficulty breathing and at night, when the barometric pressure falls, I blow from my nose boogers the size of Texas.
Is this spring fever? Hay fever? Saturday Night Fever?
My energy level is lower than the number of John Kasich's primary victories. My head pounds in rhythm with my heartbeat. I'm more congested than traffic on Stockton Hill Road. And when I'm not stopped up, my nose runs like the mighty Mississippi. My sneezes are as violent as an atomic bomb detonation. In fact, they sound like I'm shouting "HIROSHIMA!"
There is an echo to everything I hear. I ack stuff that no human being should ever have to ack.
I've tried Flonase, Zyrtec, Allegra, and Benadryl. No clarity with Claritin, no rhino with Rhinocort.
Do I need a decongestant or an antihistamine? Do I need a pill? A cream? A spray? A shot? How many nights can I lay awake until sunrise, in total misery, and still get up and go to work? How many days can I spend at work, in total misery and sleep deprived, before my boss decides it's time for me to move on to greener pastures, where I'll discover I'm allergic to cow patties?
I've sat in a steaming bathroom. I've prayed with a priest, paid a visit to a voodoo priestess and consulted with shamans. I've left burnt offerings, sacrificed my neighbor's goat - don't tell him it was me - and made a deal with the devil, but Satan could not make good on his end of the deal.
I've stuffed my nostrils with tissue. I've popped my ears. I've woken to swollen eyes matted shut by some kind of green goo.
Is it the oleanders in my neighbor's backyard? Yes. Is it the mulberry trees in my other neighbor's yard? Yes. Is it the olive tree down the street? Yes.
The grass? Yes. The weeds? Yes. The 50 different kinds of pollen? Yes.
I'm not alone. I drove by an allergy doctor's office the other day and there were half a dozen people standing outside, apparently finding comfort in the company of other miserable souls.
Maybe I'm looking at the past with rose-colored glasses, but I seem to recall a time when the desert was the place you went if you had allergies. The dry air. The virtual lack of pollen.
Apparently, a lot of folks moved to the desert to escape their allergies, only they brought the trees and bushes that caused them to have allergies in the first place. They just couldn't make the move without bringing along a reminder of home.
There's a name for people like that, but that name is not suitable for publication in a family newspaper.
On the subject of allergies, I think no matter who we elect as our next president, the nation will discover it is allergic to whomever that person might be.
This election cycle has, without a doubt, fielded the most frightening cast of candidates in the nation's history. We have the bigoted wealthy tycoon buffoon. The zealous religious extremist. The blindly ambitious lady with a past more checkered than a tablecloth in an Italian restaurant and some dude who wants to make everything free for people who can't even afford stuff that's free.
I don't want to sound like a nut, but maybe it's time we repent, for the end is nigh. We still talk about America being the land of freedom and liberty, but there's not much of either going around these days and the supply is shrinking.
To those who are allergic to President Barack Obama and believe he has been bad for the country - and I know there are a lot of you out there - I say, just wait. You ain't seen nothing yet. Scoff if you must, but what I say is nothing to sneeze at.