By the time they’re thirty or so, most drunks will recognize they’re not going anywhere much besides the ass-end of obscurity, particularly if they have no discernible talent or ability to fend for themselves outside the nucleus of some dog pack or other-a frat, a community of skank brokers looking for a patsy to front them, or even a bunch of toothless, white robed losers looking to spill some blood.

You got as far as you were going to get. You did it through marriage, and you did it through an overgenerous portion of luck and the apparent desperation of your party. And the people of this county voted you out.

That’s why your party’s purse strings are so tight when it comes to you. Even at a time when they’re flush with cash and flooding this state with it to get some of their white hoods up to DC to drool on the House and Senate floors. They’re cutting you out, Larry.

That’s why you started styling yourself as a white power candidate so early, playing that hand your party usually saves for the last few days of October. That’s why the flyers you sent out last week are nothing but shit paper in more ways than will ever elicit your dim comprehension.

I understand the Jaycees want to host a debate between you and Mr. Jeffers- a debate hosted by your friends and erstwhile political allies, on the friendliest ground- friendlier even than a shitfaced dance party at a Hyco lake Crayfish boil.

And they’ll have to scrape your ass off the floor because there isn’t enough meth, or valium, or bourbon or whatever it is you were hopped up on at the last forum to help you get through this impending ass-beating.

PJ Gentry will not be able to text you answers in real time to overcome your memory deficiencies, and Kyle Puryear won’t be able to appear on stage with you to make you look a shade smarter or more sober by comparison. Ray’s going to tear you a new asshole and you know it. Your party knows it.

The Democrats are already shopping for the popcorn.