By Ann Ivins
Well, slap me nekkid and hide my clothes – March 4 is right around the corner.
For those of you damn Yankees who can’t be expected to know your ass from a doorknob, Democratic caucuses in the Great Lone Star State are a whole nuther thing entirely.
Voting is immediately followed by a mini-convention of sorts at every polling center, and how many people show up and slap their hats for you actually determines the fate of a significant number of delegates. It may seem a little cattywhompus to the uninitiated, but itâ€™s the way things work here. Many voters donâ€™t even know these conventions exist. This year, word is spreading quicker than shit through a pig, and organizers are feeling like a one-legged man at an ass-kickinâ€™ contest as they realize that the lobby of the local post office is not going to suffice as a venue this time.
Also, the late lamented Ann Richardsâ€™ daughter has backed an Ann-referential commercial for Clinton, while Herselfâ€™s two sons have said for the record that they have no idea whom their mother would have supported, and sheâ€™da been all over them like stink on a skunk had they presumed to know her mind. Sen. Obamaâ€™s ridinâ€™ high and looking slicker than snot on a doorknob as he rallies support throughout the state. Sen. Clinton is in it to win it, come hell or high water, and you canâ€™t help but admire that kind of gumption.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Euphrosyne is seriously considering attending the local rally for the New Messiah on Friday, if sheâ€™s not too wore out and barring excessive heat or a sudden gullywasher. She is curious: will the force of his rhetoric tump her right over in a swoon of delight? Or will he prove to be just another sorry politician, all swole up and crooked as a dogâ€™s hind leg?
We shall see.
Categories: American Culture