We're raising a generation of future crime-scene body outliners, and the way things are going, we're going to need them. The world is wackifying, in a threatening kind of way. Type A types are striding our streets, collecting in tea parties, ready to blow. The seething is contagious: formerly solid, gentle women are painting Hitler mustaches all over the place. People who should be under a carefully-administered course of strong anti-psychotic drugs are running for Congress. Sweet little grandmother types are convincing themselves that our president is a Muslim, so they can have something to scrawl on a sign the next time Sarah Palin comes to town. Our country's overweight white people have become the new counterculture, except they now talk about Second Amendment solutions to our problems. Clouds of testosterone hang in the air as armchair patriots bray about what they'll do if Obama tries to take away their carbon. The complexion of our country is changing, and secular crybaby preachers are convincing their congregations that they should be voiding their bowels in fear. Whole legions of people at the breaking point will convulse in paroxysms of dread and hate, their hearts will seize, and they'll fall to the ground in rigors of mortis. Cue the kids with chalk.