The whole night was just a big pain from the start. I was trying to relax and watch “The Family Guy,” but Susan Collins kept storming into my living room. She wanted to tell me over and over how she voted this way on that issue and how she has always looked out for my well-being.

Susan Collins loves me so.

I tuned her out soon enough but then Tom Allen was over trying to charm me with that gap-toothed smile. He really is dreamy, but the man just would not shut up about his plan for economic growth and job stability.

I sat in a daze, listening to Susan and Tom squabble about who liked me the best and who could do the most wonderful things for me. It’s flattering, all of it, but when you’re trying to watch television, listening to those two go at it is like listening to a goose argue with a car salesman.

I retreated to my writing room to surf some Web. And there, at the top of the heap in my e-mail box was another letter from Joe Biden.

I used to like Joe’s e-mails because they seemed so personal. “Hi, Mark,” they always began, as though Joe B. and I were together just a night before splitting a pitcher or five at a strip club.

And this one was no different. Only, instead of recapping a glorious night of hedonism at a bar, Joe was going on about how we only have one last chance to strengthen our field of operation and extend our reach even further. About how desperately the team needs me, Mark LaFlamme, to donate a buck or two and help decide how strong our team will be.

Whatever, Joe. Try picking up a tab now and then at “Girls, Girls, Girls” and maybe I’ll think about throwing you some dough.

So I had to get away from it all and clear my head. I went for a ride, but just a block away, the campaign signs began to rise like beds of demented flowers, reminding me of how important I am personally to the structure of the political universe.

Chellie Pingree needs me. Charles Edward Summers wants me to remember him as does Dana Coffin, whom I agree should be elected to something just because he has a cool name.

Michael H. Michaud is out to do all he can for me as is John Newton Frary. Frank Cotton wants me to overlook the transgressions of his son and help him into the White House.

Everywhere you look, campaign signs stand like children vying for your attention. At this time of year, they look both authoritative and sad, like holiday bunting that has been battered by too many wind storms and too much rain.

But it’s not only the signs themselves that are showing symptoms of wear. Even the most important issues seem worn with time and handling. They’ve begun to sound absurd, like a single word that will lose its meaning if you say it over and over.

For a year, a million political voices have filled our ears, reminding us that this candidate is not prepared to lead, or that the other is too closely allied with the current president to ever bring about change.

For a year, the campaign has taken over entertainment, with Tina Fey and Sarah Palin changing places so many times, I honestly don’t know which is which anymore.

For a year, almost any place your eyes or ears wandered, you found another bid for your support and your vote. In coming weeks, it will only grow louder. Halftime is a distant memory. The two-minute warning is upon us.

Michelle Obama, that flirty thing, writes me all the time. Her letters are jaunty and light and I’m pretty sure she wants me, although all she does is yack about what a wonderful man her husband is.

John McCain calls once in a while and leaves messages on my machine. I like that he calls instead of coming into my living room, because John McCain scares me a little. I’m afraid one night, he’ll jump right out of my TV screen and start throwing stuff.

And mind you, I’m not complaining about any of this. These are important times and we need good people to take care of things.

I just worry about what is going to happen in two weeks when it all stops. In two weeks, there will be one final clamor, a loud rat-a-tat-tat of the election grand finale.

All of those earnest men and women will stop begging us for attention. The ballots will have been counted and they won’t need us anymore. Nobody will interrupt our dinners with grand promises and appeals to our good sense.

What will fill the void left by all those voices that made us feel needed for so long? What new messages will bombard all of our waking moments and a few of our sleeping ones?

My friends, I am here to suggest that it will be Innelex. Innelex will be here to soothe us in the grand silence that follows.

Is it a marvelous new drug? A new method of meditation? No.

Innelex is the word you are left with if you repeat “election” over and over until it loses its meaning. Try it! It’s fun!

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. You can e-mail him at [email protected].