Rhapsody in Red

I chose my wardrobe poorly this morning, as a quick glance in the mirror just now confirmed that the blinding red of my shirt only enhances the throbbing red of my nose, as well as the red of the anachronistic zit that has found its way to my post-pubescent chin. If I opened my mouth, I'm sure the piercing red of my strained throat would put Rudolph out of business. My eyes are not as red as one would expect, given the all-night cocaine-fueled furniture rearranging and boot-stomping fiesta that the gay neighbor upstairs decided to partake in last night. ALL NIGHT.

Meanwhile, I have like three hours to come up with a really good way to get Georgian youth to vote. So far, I have MTV and Howard Dean. Ideas?

Our pub quiz team did not perform to our highest standard last night, and Matt Yglesias called me a stupid bitch for vetoing one of his answers and I called him a flaming fag for not knowing Yalta, but as we all toiled under the totally awesome team name of Nader Killed Jesus, I think it all ended up happily.