As the ragged scree at the foothills of November's first Tuesday slips, slides, flakes and evaporates into pitiless oblivion, body chemistry changes. Not only are the candidates unwashed, but they start metabolizing ketones. They stink mightily. Their own dogs growl and slink away.
Dangerous, for the candidates, that election night. The Sword of Damocles rives the winner from crown to ballocks with a blaze of light, and the first thing the godstruck fool sees in that annealing moment is eternally blessed, willy nilly, like the princess' frog. The wise spend the evening in seclusion, with their families.
Labels: Hammer Down