Super Duper Fat Tuesday
Chin up me buckos. Be brave. Don't go all El Foldo on us here. This is no time to pull a John Edwards. Oh I understand the temptation to succumb to the numbing forecast of further interminable debates, but we've come much too far to break down into deep racking sobs just yet. The good news is, (yes, there is good news,) it's almost over. The primary process that is. And the voters of the 24 states venturing into the swirling eddies of Super Tuesday tomorrow should end it, and if they don't, then it ain't going to end for quite a while and there will be time o'plenty to cry and weep and keen over the grisly fate that awaits us.
There is a consolation: if the unthinkable event does go down -- no winner emerging -- we have six long months to arrange to have the dosage on our medication stepped up in preparation for the conventions this summer when the TV show, "American Gladiators" will be restaged in pinstripes.
Oh yes. There will be blood. But Tuesday should clinch it. They don't call it Super Tuesday for nothing you know. Actually, they call it Super Tuesday more for the quantity of states voting and not for the quality of the participants involved. And through an odd quirk of fate, its not just Super Tuesday where 52 percent of the Democratic and 41 percent of the Republican delegates will be chosen: it is also, more importantly, Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday.
So called because that's the last day Roman Catholics allow themselves to gorge on all the things they plan to give up for Lent. Like what we hope and pray occurs with us and the candidates. Please shut up. Cleverly, the state of Louisiana chose the following Saturday for their primary, four days after Super Fat Tuesday. Proving their bacchanalian propensities are not so debilitating as to prevent them from scheduling a brief recovery period before flexing their electoral muscles. As opposed to the rest of us who do the exact opposite. We vote, then we drink.
This Super Tuesday also holds the distinction of being the most Super of any Tuesday we've ever known. You could say it's the Superest Tuesday, because of everybody vying to be relevant in the partisan picking processes. "But what about me?" Leading pundits have taken to calling it Super Duper Tuesday, or Tsunami Tuesday or Giga Tuesday or The Tuesday of Destiny or Le Ultra Tuesday That Will Make Your Head Snap Back Like Someone Dropped a Load of Ammonia Laced Concrete in Your Lap, and believe it or not, the only one I made up was the last one.
The bad news is, (yes, there is bad news,) this is merely round one. And once the parties have chosen their standard bearers, this procedure will repeat itself all over again. Oh yes. There will be mud. The scariest part is realizing one of these gas bags is going to win. That's right. Our choice for the next resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave has pretty much boiled down to the Woman, the Black Guy, the Mormon and the Prisoner of War. A prospect that should make all of us shiver like stowaways in the baggage hold of a 747 on a Seattle to Shanghai run. Oh yes. There will be hypothermia.