The political flyers overflowing my mailbox, the pop-up videos overwhelming my mood every time I check sports scores on a website, the campaign ads overpowering my senses when I listen to my favorite commercial radio stations, they are making October a thoroughly depressing and miserable month.

No matter what I do to avoid the electioneering, it creeps into my life, darkening everything it touches. It’s like black mold that infests your shower or the cabinet under your sink — you did not invite it in, you don’t like it, it just appeared and has no intention of ever leaving you alone.

The political ads this year are in 3D like we’ve never seen before: Deceitful, dishonest and disgusting. They are the MVP of campaigns: Misleading, vicious and personal. They throw out emotional adjectives and labels as if the candidates and their supporters swallowed a thesaurus, which was a large book of similar-meaning words before the internet turned it into an app that is easier to swallow.

The tens of millions of dollars being spent on U.S. Senate and U.S. House campaigns in Alaska is an embarrassment in a state where maybe 350,000 people will vote. The several billions spent nationwide is even more insulting in a nation where millions need food and shelter and healthcare, not political lies and promises.

There is no shame in politics, only winners and losers, and the losers are the public exposed to the ongoing toxic spill of too much money in election campaigns. The candidates could buy voters a hazmat suit, though no one could wear it on election day — it probably would have the candidate’s name stitched on the back, and state law prohibits electioneering within 200 feet of a polling station.

Amber, the Sentinel’s business/office/everything manager, often reminds me not to write so many political columns. She tells me to mix in some humor and some personal stories and not be so serious all the time.

So, following her instructions, I have a medical tale to tell. After my neurologist said I could stop worrying about my head, my doctor sent me to a speech therapist to check out my suspicion that I was not speaking as clearly as I did before I got old. I felt I was working harder to enunciate each word. And I thought it was getting harder to swallow large pills.

The speech therapist had me practice making sounds, checked my facial muscles and tongue strength, listened to me talk — yes, I stayed away from politics — and then wanted to examine my swallowing.

She gave me applesauce — no sugar, of course, this was a medical office — and graham crackers and had me eat and swallow while she placed her hand on my throat so that she could feel it go down.

I passed the test. 

She said she couldn’t find anything wrong and I didn’t need to come back for another appointment. She suggested I could solve the swallowing problem by cutting the pills in half. That never occurred to me, which I figure is another indication of getting old.

My only regret was that I should have failed that first swallowing test on purpose, so that I could have gotten a second helping of applesauce and graham crackers. It would have spoiled my lunch, but it would have made me feel like I was back in preschool, in a room free of political campaigns.