Mississippi is a beautiful place, where the trees are greener than in Yellowstone Park and the air fresher and better for the lungs than whatever they're breathing in Valhalla itself. I can't get along with hardly anybody there, but that's my problem and it's not the point anyhow. The point is that on early fall nights, when the humidity has all but evaporated but it's still pleasingly warm and I can sit on my grandmother's front lawn at night and look up and count the stars, I feel at home. It is not a feeling that I have ever had, for so much as a second, any place else, and because I haven't been to Mississippi since 2004, just before my grandmother died, I haven't felt it in a long time, and I miss it. And if I should never happen to feel it again for the rest of my life, I will blame the Republican party, which I hate with the intensity of a thousand suns, for having worked so hard to make the South a beautiful, wonderful place where Stupid is far too widely accepted as the natural order of things and events that set off jubilation in every civilized corner of the world, such as the election of Barack Obama, set off confusion and panic and a rush to the gun shop to stock up.
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