It was Labor Day weekend, and I did like many Americans—I tried not to labor. I sat on my back deck in the shade with a cocktail and tried to tune everything out. Occasionally, when I found the strength, I’d pick up a walnut off the ground and bat it into the neighbor’s trees. It’s good fun—but it pissed the barn swallows off something fierce. They kept swooping at me all afternoon but it’s OK. It’s a simple life with simple pleasures.

But not everything is great. I’m having a hard time with this election. Whenever I hear the words Hillary or Trump, all I can think about is the image of two well-dressed pigs fornicating, everyone gathered around them whooping and hollering. The sounds of them squealing in feverish excitement is almost too much to bear and I’m just not sure what to make of all this. The whole idea of this year’s election seems pointless.

I pondered this over a bowl of ice cream with my 2-year-old son, who was playing with his toy dinosaur. I looked to him for his thoughts on this political nightmare, to which he responded by tossing the Ankylosaurus off the deck. It fell 10 feet before taking out a planter full of flowers.

His response was precise and clear. I obviously needed outside help to understand what was happening.

I decided to look to my down-and-out friend, Dan, for his political advice. He had been in the Navy during the Gulf War. I figured if anyone had a handle on all this gibberish it’d be him. I found him lingering in the back of the pub, smoking, his eyes glued on the tv screen above him.

I asked him, “What’s your thoughts on all this?” He sort of just stared for a bit, long enough for me to think that he hadn’t heard the question… but then he spoke up. He said very intensely, “It sucks.” And then started mumbling violently about crucifying them. The words “hang them from the yardarm” also fell out of his mouth and he proceeded to make the gesture of throwing a noose over a beam.

The man was upset. And angry. But after a bit of smoking and pacing around, he said he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, that it brought him down, and so I left him there—smoking, as baseball flickered on the screen.

When I left the pub, I ran into another friend, but he also refused to talk about it. Instead, he only wanted to wrestle and immediately went into the crouch position, his hands floating in front of him waiting for whatever limb I would foolishly offer. But not this time. Oh, no. I was ready for him. And I locked him in a full nelson. The fight was over. Several people walked by and I let them whack him hard in the stomach. He needed this.

My friend has always been obsessed with wrestling and I usually try to avoid him when he’s like this. Whenever I see him he always goes into the crouch position, and most times I just cross the street or pretend someone’s calling me. When he sees this, he usually smiles then flips me the bird before continuing on to find some other sucker to jump.

This has gone on for years. Any situation that comes his way, his first reaction is to wrestle it out. And who knows, maybe this guy’s onto something. As strange as he is, his conscious seems clear.

But not mine. Maybe if I watch baseball and occasionally wrestle people, I just might make it through November. And maybe, just maybe, these filthy pig-figures will go away like the Ankylosaurus. But probably not.