Dr. John and Mr. McCain
Undoubtably, McCain has taken a leaf from Robert Louis Stevenson's book and distilled a potion of undeniable potency. Only such an drought would explain his complete truthfulness of his defending of the Straight Talk Express and his 100% truthful ads at the same time that his campaign produces another round of cretinous fliers and robocalls.
I can imagine the pure, honest Dr. John taking his first swig of the potion. He crumples on the ground in a fit with many an rolling eye and spit-speckled frothing of "new taxes on families making $42,000!" Mr. McCain awakes and drags himself to his parners in crime, Steve Schmidt and Charlie Condon.
The next morning in whichever of his six houses he finds himeself in, Dr. John wakes and finds himself in a shambles with no memory of the night before. He is surrounded by invoices for robocalls and lobbyist. "Oh mercy, me! However did I wind up?" he asks. He brushes off any doubts like the flattening of his comb-over.
He looks out the window. "Say there are my friends, on the Tire Swing outside!" With barely a thought about the empty flask on the floor at his feet, he runs outside to join his buddies.
They'll all wonder what might of happend to their beloved Dr. John, but as slowly as an untreated wound will throb with pus, Mr. McCain will creep out of his own accord, lurching to and fro, and howling at the moon, "Ayers! Ayers! Don't they know that it's my time, MY time."




