Via Dooce comes David Sedaris' essay for the New Yorker about undecided voters. He says exactly what I was trying to say with this entry, but in a way that doesn't require readers have a Silkwood shower afterwards to wash off the acid bath I spewed forth:
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.