The tired commentariat.

• Author: Clinton, Kate
• Position: Unplugged - Essay

The Presidential Trace has become such a grueling, humiliating process, I hope they're all on something stronger than a Red Bull-and-ego combo.

How else could anyone get through a 24/7, twenty-one-month-long campaign without flax, juice, or the clear?

With the media trying to catch candidates in an exhausted misspeak they can blow up into a gaffe zeppelin, I half expect to see the eventual President-elect caught on videotape, sheepishly tiptoeing across a backyard patio to the sliding glass doors of the White House kitchen in a Dateline spin-off called "To Catch a President."

With plenty of issues in the barrel to shoot at, Congress seems to have nothing better to do than investigate the use of performance enhancing drugs (PEDs) in baseball. At this point, surely they could hand it off to the minor leagues. Next up: rap artists.

Instead of rappers, Congress should investigate drug use in the mainstream media. They're so tweaked they've taken to referring to themselves as "MSM," which in public health surveys also denotes "men who have sex with men." After New Hampshire voters put a big whoopee cushion on the commentariat's ex cathedras, Situation Rooms everywhere have been retrofitted as Panic Rooms.

It is not pretty.

I have to take Dramamine just to watch Wolf Blitzer in his hypergraphic, souped-up Sitch Room. He is so literal but tries to sound positively daring in the chaos of constantly "breaking news."

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

Blitz-man seems to be on downers.

"I'm going to walk over here now to this screen." He walks.

"We're going to look at these numbers now." He looks at those numbers.

CNN'S John...