Election Day is here, which means Election Day is almost over.

Cue the opening strains of the “Hallelujah Chorus,” please.

If you’re like me (by all means, seek counseling), you’re sick of this election season. Sicker than you were of the Macarena. Wearier than Martha Stewart, Jerry Springer and the Crocodile Hunter guy could ever make you. Even if you were sequestered with them in the same television studio. For six hours.

So, what about this campaign is most disturbing, besides everything?

Campaign placards. Signs, signs, everywhere signs. Planted by national, state and local candidates, breaking my mind.

Please introduce me to the poor soul who’s ever walked into a voting booth and checked a box because he or she recognized the name from a sign. No, on second thought, don’t. My town’s roads can’t support that much traffic.

This paragraph doesn’t contain research about how much money Maine campaigns spend on this obstruction of scenery, because I don’t have enough Mylanta to get through it. Really, roadside signs are nothing more than fodder for every high school Halloween scavenger hunt in history.

Hey, I’ve repented. Not to mention that the statute of limitations is up.

Mysterious phone calls. Don’t mean to flaunt my celebrity connections or anything, but George Dubya’s mom, Barbara, called my house this weekend. So did Ronald Reagan and Jane Wyman’s son, Michael.

Funny how they wouldn’t answer my questions. Just kept right on talking. How rude.

Debates. Don’t get me wrong. I live for respectful, intelligent dialogue. Once upon a lectern, an English teacher schooled me in the finer points of Lincoln-Douglas debate.

So let me assure you: Abe did a double-reverse somersault in his tomb during this autumn’s three alleged debates. They weren’t debates. They were unpaid political announcements in which two of the presidential candidates (and aren’t there usually at least six names on the ballot, anyway?) received equal time.

When the follow-up discussion is an analysis of who’s taller, who wore the blue tie or the red tie and who smirked, sighed, paused, blushed or stuttered, it’s not a debate. It’s “The Dating Game.”

Words we don’t understand. John Kerry’s supporters say he has “gravitas.” Hmm, and I thought the red, blinking “shut up, already” lights on the debate podiums were the reason for the orange-ish tint to his skin.

Wait a second. Cable news analysts have informed me that “gravitas” is a fancy word for a high level of seriousness befitting a world leader. They say it’s best identified by the use of soft, measured tones when discussing war or joblessness.

Forwarded e-mails. Anybody want to see John Kerry’s supposed “resume” (Last line of each paragraph: “I also served in Vietnam for four months”) or what Dick Cheney would look like as a woman? I got ’em, and plenty more.

Family unfriendly television. So glad that Maine’s referendum on the relative merits of bear-baiting is almost in the books. Now we can return to prime-time normalcy, when the most disgusting commercials on TV relate to the Fox fall lineup.

Undecided voters. You can’t find a greater distinction between two candidates in American history, yet up to one-fifth of eligible voters are said to be waffling (flip-flopping?) as they drive to the polls today. Amazing. These must be the same people who take five minutes at the drive-up window.

And no ode to this first Tuesday in November would be complete without mentioning blue states and red states, bloggers and talk radio hosts, high taxes juxtaposed with the cost of health care, and quiet faith versus born-again faith.

Yes, you’re tired, too. But it will soon be over. At least we hope to know the results sometime this month.

In the meantime, I’ll be shaking hands at the town office, trying to catch some gravitas.

Kalle Oakes is the Sun Journal’s columnist. His e-mail is [email protected].