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I like a glass of sweet wine at dinner, so I was totally aghast at how the campaign went last week in Pennsylvania. It was one thing to drop into a bar with a bunch of sweaty men in plaid shirts, and something else to chug down a glass of warm beer.

It was warm beer. I don’t like beer when it’s cold. How the Brits and Aussies manage to drink warm beer is one of the mysteries of the universe. What could be worse?

Well, it got worse. No sooner had I chugged down a glass of beer in that Pennyslvania bar and the bartender offered me a shot of whiskey. I like whiskey as much as I like kissing a sweaty armpit but there I was, just one of the guys, video cameras on, men cheering, what else could I do?

The bartender handed me a shot of whiskey and I chugged again. My God, how do men tolerate that taste; or lack of taste? It burned all the way down, so far down that the polish on my toenails curled.

I’ll be glad when I don’t have to do this again. Pennsylvania, I need your votes, but this is the last you’ll ever hear from me.

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