Unlike the Olympics, an every-fourth-year event that's somewhat vicariously enjoyable, a presidential election brings all sorts of horrible, gaudy nastiness. This city doesn't leave much leeway for political options. You're either for Kerry, or against Bush. Choose your poison.

It's difficult to walk down the street, or drive down the road, without seeing some sort of political activism in progress. Instead of the normal “Register to vote?” question I was asked four years ago, I'm now confronted with the somewhat less neutral “Register to vote and help get Bush out of office?”

The proliferation of stickers and signs is usually a phenomenon that can be ignored, at least after building up a tolerance, much like heroin but without the mess of narcotics. I prefer my politics to remain somewhat impersonal, but sometimes that's just a fantasy.

To set the scene: After returning home from work one day, I find a “Bush-Cheney ‘04” sticker tacked to the door of my room. I shrug and forget about it. A few days later, I come home to find another sticker on the door that reads “George Bush is a punk-ass chump.” (Disclaimer: I have no idea how the stickers got there, and the juxtaposition of both made the situation less political and more ironically funny .)

The following weekend, a few friends come back to my apartment after a night out. One of my friends sees the pro-Bush emblem, and promptly makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a sigh and a scream, as only the dramatically intoxicated can do. Not five minutes later, I see the same friend tearing past me down the hallway, making a beeline for my room. She proceeds to rip the pro-Bush sticker from the door – knocking off the anti-Bush sticker in the process – and tear it to shreds. This doesn't sit well with me, because, for some reason, I don't like seeing my belongings destroyed. This holds true even when I have no emotional attachment to said objects.

She runs to the bathroom and emerges seconds later, saying, “I put Bush where he should be. Flushed down the toilet.”

The whole incident is quickly forgotten – this is after a night at the bars, remember – and the rest of the evening/night/early morning proceeds without further mishap.

A few days later, after a weekend of wondering why my toilet has been running non-stop, I pick up the tank lid to do some quick home repair investigation. I find half a “Bush-Cheney ‘04” sticker partially blocking the flushing mechanism. She didn't flush Bush. She put him in my septic tank.

In any case, remember to vote this November and to catch this issue of sixosix. And don't worry: I'm sure Kerry will take Illinois, no matter what you or I do.

Enjoy the issue.