But long lines snaking around our polling place -- a Central West End apartment complex -- forced us to interact with the unwashed masses slightly more intimately than we cared to. (Fortunately, we always carry a tin of Vicks VapoRub in our bomber jacket).
It was about that time local alder-dude Joe Roddy showed up with a jug of Bread Company coffee for his constituents, which carried a distinct aroma of conflict of interest, if you ask us (though Roddy wasn't on the ballot this time). "Drink up," he said, or something like that. "Got to maintain our voting energy!"
"Yeah, Jim Talent ain't gonna elect himself," we goofed, as surrounding true blues visibly recoiled.
When the apartment complex's oversize heating apparatus sprang suddenly to life -- spewing black smoke and stifling conversation with its deafening machinations -- we were left to ponder whether taxpayer money to clone minimum-wage earning smokers was a good or a bad thing.
Once inside, after forsaking the touch-screen for a paper ballot, we could have sworn we heard someone whisper into our good ear, "What would David Eckstein do?"