Tales of Obamaland

You are tooling your 12-year old Crown Vic down a winding road at speeds too high for the mediocre suspension and well-worn tires. Around each bend, you begin to notice little bits of bizarrity. A hitchhiker who wants to go to Pantsville, but is curiously not wearing any pants. A man cleaning up an old Burma Shave sign with Burma Shave. A run-down old motel with no cars in the lot, but a No Vacancy sign lit. A deer ready to cross the road, but comes to a screeching stop when you approach. An old junk washing machine on the shoulder that still has clothes in it. A billboard advertising some cave that is 600 miles away, in the opposite direction. Lush thick grass growing on rocky soil that seemingly needs no turf-enhancing fertilizer. An old gas station with a separate pump for Full Serve at the same price as No Serve. Green Yield signs replacing red Stop signs on the side streets to save energy. A lady protesting tree cutting wielding a paper protest sign on a wooden stick, held together with cellophane tape. A dog being chased by a freaked-out cat, who is running away from a highly-disturbed mouse. A dead skunk along side of the road that smells like last night's meatloaf. You see a sign. You hear a honk. Look around, check your mirrors. You've entered Obamaland.