Sometimes we make it a lot harder on ourselves than we have to.  This is where the acronym KISS comes in handy -- Keep It Sane and Simple.

There are other variations on that acronymic theme, of course.  Many of them even contain no rough language whatever, surprisingly, when referring to our stalwart national stewards, aka members of Congress.

The point, although it seems especially prone to idly wandering away today, is easy enough to re-grasp:  Sometimes the answers for our most difficult challenges and problems are right in front of us, jumping up and down, waving like mad, trying to be seen and heard.

(Of course, not everyone looks at the world as I do.  To actually look at the world as I do, first, twist your facial expression into a combination wince and grimace, with a baleful half-smile.  Then, pop open your eyes wide as they'll go, with wrinkled eyebrows, as if in comedic horror.  Finally, place your hands theatrically staggered in front of your face, as if trying you were trying to stop a volley of catapulted pillows, or an oncoming train.)

Whoops.  Digressing again.  My apologies.  I will endeavor to... Sorry -- I'll keep it simple, from here on out.

The loose chatter of Romneysiacs is idling upward, as the gabblers feel their Wheaties, and are feeling especially well-armed with a bad case of Sore Loseritis, made worse by the brain-disengaging disease, Secessionist Fevers, aka Separation Anxieties.

In a word, give or take some Romney-voting states, the Old South wants O-U-T.

My first impulse is to be just as reckless in return, suggesting that all ten states, and all 100,000 petitioners in this idiot cause, be given a small, hyphenated phrase in blunt reply.  (No, I was not thinking of a biological impossibility, but that would be a most excellent guess.)  I was in fact thinking of this one:  Buh-bye.

You know, as in:  Don't let the screen door slap you in the ass on your way out, you bozos.

Texas -- who woulda guessed? -- has taken the lead once again, this perennial secessionist rose amongst all the states.  The petition from Texas has 25,000 ticked-off, sore-loser, Romneybot, racist Teabaggers fuming and steaming around in circles, back and forth, kicking any slow-moving small animals that accidentally get in their het-up way.

With the exception of flag officers having ego management problems, no veteran ever alive has expected to come home down a red-carpeted aisle.  Confetti, cheering crowds, and marching bands were never in the daydream, either.

But, then -- a backhanded cuff, a knee to the groin, and a karate chop to the jugular wasn't supposed to be part of the plan, either.

It's not quite what we do, and have been doing for decades, but it's figuratively close.  Of course, it gets worse than that, too.  Far, far worse.

Take the story of one man, Christopher DeLara, who filed for disability after his tour in Iraq:  The Army said it could find no records of him having been overseas.

Consider the plight of aging garments separated into heaps:  this one for fixes, this one for donation, this one for auction in Beverly Hills...

The signature dress worn by Judy Garland in the film, The Wizard of Oz, has been auctioned, bringing $480,000.  If that raises an eyebrow, consider this:  A similar dress, worn only in tests, last year brought almost twice that -- $910,000.

How are your eyebrows now?  Still holding up OK?  Think they might un-arch and relax by New Year's?  The explanation raised for the price difference is that only a couple test dresses were made, while there were at least seven made for use in the film.

One need be mindful we're likely talking bidders here who have exceptionally high requirements in the first place, to shell out that kind of loot on a 73-year-old dress -- and even higher, to differentiate between a test and a real dress.  In any event, the name of the buyer has not been revealed.