I was all poised to write a funny post tonight. Had a humorous video prepped; was already chewing over appropriate captions in my head. Then, on the way home from the bookstore, I stopped to buy groceries at the local supermarket—whipping cream, a loaf of bread, and a mango. As I was leaving with my miscellaneous bunch of goods, something caught my eye in the parking lot. My “Obama '08” bumper sticker, bright white against my burgundy Honda, looked slightly amiss.

Someone had slashed my car.

That’s right: someone put a nice fat slash through my “O,” and squeezed in an “N” to the left.

I can’t decide whether to be entertained or enraged. Okay, so they didn’t cause me or my vehicle any bodily harm. But some unknown villain defaced my property in an attempt to belittle my beliefs. I find that mildly infuriating. In the midst of the vicious ongoing smear campaigns, my car has now been smeared, too.

So what? you might say. Somebody slashed your “O.” Big deal. But what’s next? Slashed tires? Slashed brake lines? As I drove out of the parking lot, I must admit: a slight shiver of fear ran through me as I placed my foot on the accelerator.

If I’d seen the culprit, you better believe I would have nailed him with my mango.

Throwing a mango would, of course, be an immature response lacking in finesse (though not in citrus). We’ve all had similar impulses, I’m sure. There’ve been a dozen times when I feel the sudden impulse to rip a McCain/Palin sign from someone’s front yard as I drive by. But the difference between me and the faceless attacker of my bumper sticker is this: I don’t act on that impulse. Why? Because I don’t believe shredding the dreams of our opponents—no matter how “harmless” the act may seem—adds anything of value to this race.

Screwing with someone’s bumper sticker is, admittedly, a puerile pursuit in infantile politics. And I’d like to say I’m not one to get incensed about a little purple marker. But there are people who are very angry in this election—obviously angry enough to put their hands (and their markers) where they don’t belong. I live alone in an isolated area. If someone decides they really don’t like Obama, what’s to keep them from following me home to wreak havoc on my house, my yard, myself?

I’ve had an Obama/Biden sign sitting in my trunk for weeks. I hadn’t put it up in front of my house, precisely because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Now my mind’s made up: it will remain hidden in my trunk for these remaining days leading up to November 4th, silent, safe, sad.

The paranoia ebbs and flows, but my ideological complaint stays constant. “No.” That’s the message my car is now advertising. How fitting. “Yes, we can,” says Obama, and all those who have been rejuvenated by his campaign. “No,” proclaims the coward who wields a purple marker masquerading as a world view. And now my innocent Honda is giving in to the wave of pervasive pessimism. Thank you, scribe whom I will never meet, for transforming my car into a coward, too.

I’ve heard several Pennsylvanians complain vociferously about their hunting rights. “Obama will take our guns!” they say, clamoring after that Second Amendment right to bear arms. These guys, in their cool aviator shades and hunting caps, are all about personal property. Maybe they’re the ones who carry purple markers around in the deep pockets of their cargo pants.

Well, I’m all about personal property, too. Like my car. The car that someone defaced tonight in a juvenile attempt to smear the man who has given me hope that I might be proud to be an American again. Attempting to slash through that hope with a nasty, nameless act? That’s not the kind of thing that makes me proud at all. And really, now…aren’t the official campaigns doing enough smearing of their own?

I tried to wash it white as snow. But can smears be made to vanish? You’ll have to see for yourself.

After I first noticed the bumper sticker, hands still full of whipping cream and mango, I started to climb back into my car, a little dumbstruck, oscillating between disbelief and fury. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the woman standing by the station wagon next to me crane her neck around and look long and hard at the back of my car.

“Excuse me,” she said, walking toward my half-open door.

I bristled. Surely this was the fiend herself, back to view her dastardly deed and christen it with a smug comment. She was even lingering at the scene of the crime!

“Yes?” I said, ready to spit fire.

To my surprise, she smiled. “Where’d you get your Women for Obama/Biden sticker?” she asked, pointing to the other, untainted bumper sticker gracing the back of my car. “I’d love one.”

Swallowing my fiery spittle, I smiled back.

There may be hope yet.

“No,” say you, anonymous naysayer?

Well to that I say, “Hell, yes.”