>> Monday, November 05, 2012
Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go, and we'll be halfway through Election Day here on the east coast, though we'll have another dozen-or-so-hours--if we're lucky--before we know who actually won the damn thing, Bronco Bama or Mitt Romney.
If we're lucky. Nate Silver's simulations come up (as of this writing, at least) with recounts nearly eight times in a hundred, Romney losing the Electoral College but winning the popular vote nearly seven times in a hundred; thank the gods he's only showing an Electoral College tie a third-of-a-percent of the time, but, gods help us, people win the lottery on longer odds than that. And it's all but a guarantee that whomever loses--probably, though not necessarily the Republicans--will twist and shout about how the election was stolen; the Democrats definitely will, if they lose, but (to be fair) there's more disenfranchisement going on through voter ID laws than there's election fraud that would steal an election (try telling that to a Republican, though).
It's not out of the question that this election might not really be over 'til January. There's something to look forward to. We're all gonna be looking like little Abby if this shit has to go into litigation or onto the floor of the House. And Brother Seth might even get that apocalypse he's sorta hankering for! (Might even be in time for Christmas--there's a helluva thing to find under your tree!)
Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go, and I might need to be sedated. Twenty-four hours, hell; I might need to saddle myself with an abuse problem if this thing goes past November.
No, hey: it isn't really that likely that would happen. It's just like, you know, Stephen King has written about having dreams where he opens an overhead compartment on an airplane and millions of rats swarm out (no link, because I can't remember if that was in the introduction to a story collection or maybe somewhere else); and this right here, this Electoral College, popular vote, election shenanigans cluster-fuck is my current version of the overhead compartment being opened and Bad Stuff raining out. No, I don't expect we'll really wonder who the next President will be come Wednesday or Thursday, even if one or two states are still doing recounts into the next month or two; most likely Electoral College math is going to give the President a definitive two-seventy and the rest will just roll over into whatever mandate he has or hasn't got.
Most likely. And if he loses, well; then that's going to be a closer Electoral College (because it has to be, because Romney has a harder path to two-seventy), but I expect it'll still be a hard two-seventy, and not a situation where we can't know for sure until Ohio or Florida get the Santa treatment (you know, list-making and twice-checking, is what I mean, if you didn't get the gag, which wasn't that good to start with).
Here's something else we can say definitively, I think: whomever gets elected won't be healing the nation's wounds, sealing the rift, bringing Americans together. I hate to say it, but I've reached the point where I don't even care if those on the other side ever embrace President Obama, and I hate even more to say that if Mitt Romney is elected, fuck him, he won't be my President. Even George W. Bush was "my" President even if I didn't vote for him, even if I opposed most of what he did in office, even if I think he probably ought to be indicted (and that the President is dishonoring our treaty obligations if not actually breaking the law by not pursuing indictments for torture violations); I've long been a sucker for the idea that we come together under a common leadership and a common concern for the General Welfare even if we have partisan and ideological divisions. But ignoring the fact that the other side flat-out hates me and doesn't even want to look for a middle at all is getting to be too tiring a task, and I think I'm just going to start reciprocating. If Mitt Romney is an American citizen, I don't think it's the same America I come from.
Maybe time will heal all wounds; or, maybe, I'll steal Robert Heinlein's amendment of that cliché, and hope that time wounds all heels. Whatever.
Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go.