When Entertainment Weekly conducted a Woodward and Bernstein-like investigation of "all the presidential candidates'" pop culture favorites, I was shocked-and-awed to learn you are a Curb Your Enthusiasm fan.
Although I disagree with your policies, I must admit I share your taste in television, which, as they say, makes strange bedfellows. So, as a fellow fan, I beg you to "curb your enthusiasm" for the show. Since your endorsement, I've been unable to think of Curb without imagining this frightening image: You are in one of your nine houses in full relaxation mode, you've kicked off your $520 Ferregamo calf skin loafers and you're curled up on the couch with Cindy (whom you just arm wrestled for the remote), snuggling under a polar-bear-fur blanket while a taxidermied bald eagle keeps vigil on the mantle with caribou heads and framed ABBA albums on the walls and you're surrounded by good friends like John Hagee, Rod Parsley and Ralph Reed --your adopted child nowhere in sight (as usual)-- everyone laughing away. I'm scared that this image will haunt me forever and prevent me from enjoying the next season, which I've been looking forward to with much excitement.
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