What happens in Vegas can stay the hell in Vegas, for all I care.

So, last night's umptieth Republican primary debate thus far went something like this (for a smart crowd of live-blog commentary).  Me, I don't think I can get interested anymore.  The lot of them, from 1950's sitcom dad Mitt Romney to wacky neighbor Michele Bachmann to smarmy kid nobody really likes Rick Santorum, they are just cut-outs to me. They are just different styles of the same talking points.  Do I care if undocumented workers cut Romney's lawn?  Do I need to care if Perry is squishy soft on immigrant kids getting an education or whatever the line against him is?

No. It might be marginally interesting if the candidates began to realize they need to put Herman Cain and his silly 999 plan away now, and it might sort of fascinate me that Romney laid a hand on Rick Perry as if to say, "Oh, calm yourself" in a paternalistic alpha-male gesture that was a bit more dominance than I expected from the usually more laid-back candidate--but so what?  In the larger scheme of things, all of these candidates are awful and have their unelectable qualities. The only highlight in my seeing these debates is knowing these--these happy few, these fevered egos, these temporary fameballs of the election moment--are what the Republican voters have to choose from.

And I don't have to choose from among them at all, at all.

(Insert rollicking laughter of the slightly giddy and relieved, mocking and exulting, and also sort of sarcastic type right here. It's a very complicated type of laughter, I've got.)