CONTINUED FROM PAGE I have to admit, Kemp appalls me on a physical level. My man looks like he got a crumpled grocery sack for a head. My man looks like he comes from central casting for the movie “Pleasantville.” My man looks like they blended twelve high-school gym coaches from Macon and poured the gunk into an melted head mold. My man looks like he writes fan-fiction about Men’s Warehouse. My man looks like he’s tried to conceive a child on Robert E. Lee’s birthday. My man looks like he’s going to cruise the food court in Dunwoody right after he pawns his saber collection. When drunk dudebros ask cops, “Do you know who my father is?” this is the father they’re referring to. Kemp’s face looks like he’s exactly one martini away from slurring the busboy at a country club. In all honesty, picking the worst thing about Kemp is not hard. Of all the cancerous parts of our Secretary of State, the most grotesque is this: He’s a monster straight from the past. Kemp wants to drag us back into history, back to the days when Georgia meant masters, and Jim Crow democracy, and being laughed at by the rest of the world. He’s a dumber, uglier version of Trump — such a thing shouldn’t be scientifically possible, but it has happened, somehow. No wonder polls have him and Stacey Abrams neck and neck. Kemp is a typical clueless prep-school dunce. He’s so entitled, he thinks the governorship belongs to him. He’s so entitled, he doesn’t have to explain presiding over his own election. He’s so entitled, he thinks he can strip away the rights of others. Like, for instance, the right for LGBTQ people to exist. How satisfying it will be in November, when he discovers what is actually coming to him: a long, sad trip back to Athens. Kemp can prance around with his shotgun and his truck and try every pathetic little gimmick in his book. But there is this thing called “the voting population of Georgia” that he can’t get around. He knows it, I know it, we all know it. No wonder he’s so scared: The numbers are not his friend. You’d panic too. I imagine him in his political retirement, sitting next to his faded UGA cheerleader uniform, screaming about minority voters into the owl-haunted night. You have to pity him. Brian Kemp may find his supporters eventually forgive him. Math never will.