The O Files: They want to Believe...

Margaret’s drinking had come down a bit since the demise of the HRC campaign. She’d also stopped wearing so much yellow, but that’s another issue altogether. When she appeared at my hotel room door at three am, Famous Grouse on her breath, a Marriot tumbler pinched in her right hand, I knew something was up.
“I was attacked!”
“Ma puce!”
“By a Canadian.”
“Then it could not have been that bad, mon cheri. Come in.”
“It was unreal,” she said as she splayed herself over my sleep-tussled sheets as I cracked the mini-bar. “A law professor from McGill. I was minding my own business, downstairs, having a nightcap after a seminar on the Founder’s Constitutional Intentions with regard to War Powers. He approached me at the bar, innocently enough, over a comment I had made about Nixon’s attempted veto of the War Powers Res. Blah, blah, blah, by the time we got to the campaign it was pretty clear where he stood, and frankly, Pierre, where I stand, too. So, I felt comfortable telling him what I’m telling everyone one: ‘I’m for him, but I don’t adore him.’
“That was all it took. It was like his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he was in some inner-psyche warfare, battling the demons at Armageddon.”
“Was the race card pulled?” I asked, handing her a cold scotch rocks.
“It was.”
“They should print an actual card; one with two sides, each stipulating the advantages to be gained by its appearance depending which side you are on. If it is not produced, it cannot be deduced!”
“These people are madmen, sweetie; this swarthy FC maniac was enraged that Republicans would suggest that He pulled it with the Dead Presidents thing and then flip around, with a finger in the air and say that the Clinton people were at work, coaching the McCain staff on dirty little tricks. They’re still mad at the Clintons! It was inchoate madness! I was scared to ask what he thought about Paris and Britney.”
“I thought once the primaries were over,” I said with a giant sigh, cracking the seal on my own mini-gin, “they would turn and focus. But with McCain fumbling the are like Caged Animals, these Obamaniacs, on a strict diet of Raw Red Meat laced with Methamphetamines, their only instinct is to fight and kill in the name of the Holy One. They are Bashi-Bazooks!”
“My dear, Froggy Nuck friend, it was so emotional. It was like he wasn’t even talking to me; he was coming from a place deep inside him. He kept saying how Barack has tried to be white his whole life, asking me if I knew what that was like. If I knew his pain.” Margaret hoisted herself onto her side, sipped of the drink. “There is something inside these men’s psyches, and it is men, mostly, that want to believe in something again. They want Camelot back, the world is not good enough the way it is. And this a Canadian! Jesus, Pierre, will it end after the election?”