Only two days until Election Day and I’d like to send my future self a memo. Did you kids know you could talk to the future? Look-see here. You can do it. Just get yourself a blog and you can be like Uncle Herb. Time-traveling, goofball, crazy Uncle Herb. Fasten your seatbelt Barbarella. Here we go.
Memo
TO: Future Me (Damn, you look more handsome with each passing day).
FROM: Younger Me (and did I mention you look mah-velous, Future Me?)
RE: The 2008 Election Results
Memo
TO: Future Me (Damn, you look more handsome with each passing day).
FROM: Younger Me (and did I mention you look mah-velous, Future Me?)
RE: The 2008 Election Results
Dude, don’t gloat.
Your guy just won the election handily and without any of those “count the ballot” delays of past elections. This time, it worked out. No chads hanging ‘round here, and that’s just fine. Florida dodged the bullet, and good for them. Cuba didn’t want them and, let’s admit it—that was on the table.
But, Future Boy, you need to take the high road, here. Your friends on the other side of the aisle just lost, and they’re not used to losing. It’s all new. Karl Rove forgot that chapter in his playbook. Should’ve been in there between the chapters on “Never Testify in Front of a Congressional Committee” and “Erase All Emails, Then Conveniently Forget Them.” Don’t be like those guys and rub it in their faces. Just win with dignity, nod politely, and be on your way.
I know what you want. You want an apology from them. Well, it ain’t coming. So, don’t make it all awkward. Just break up. It’s not them, it’s you.
Let them blame you as you snicker off and celebrate. You can drink your champagne, and gobble down your foie gras and cheer on your elitist, socialist, Marxist, communist, friends. But victory dances don’t happen on graves. They happen in end zones. Bury the dead with honor, no matter what you think the after-life will bring them.
Don’t make them feel guilty for eight years of waning international respect or disastrous and deadly foreign policy. Don't blame them for the dollars now worth pennies in your 401K. They know what they did. They pooped in their own diapers and now they have to sit in it a while.
Don’t yell at them, don’t curse. They saw what their votes got them. Let them just think it over. Give them a time out—it’s the new way we do things around here.
Maybe this will lead to a redefinition of their party. If they want Miss Wasilla as their queen, let them bring her back to their hive. I’m telling you now, they’ll lose a few drones. And honey, what could be sweeter?
No, Buck Rogers, your celebrating can’t last long. There’s work to do. You’re not just cleaning up after your party. You’re cleaning up after theirs. And you can’t do it alone. This time, change is big—and bigger than your guy can handle by himself.
So, make nice. Feel good. Job well done.
Suck down the bubbly, wipe those smirky lips on your shirtsleeve and get busy. Team Obama-rama must play clean-up. There’re wars to wrap up, apology letters to send, mop-ups to supervise, and middle-class boo-boos to bandage.
Tell Joe The Plumber to clear the pipes. It’s time for a clean flush.
And remember, there’s nothing worse than a sore loser, except a sore winner.
Oh, and one more thing you sexy future dude—in case I’m entirely wrong and things turned out the other way, blame those bastards. It’s all their fault. Always has been.
Your guy just won the election handily and without any of those “count the ballot” delays of past elections. This time, it worked out. No chads hanging ‘round here, and that’s just fine. Florida dodged the bullet, and good for them. Cuba didn’t want them and, let’s admit it—that was on the table.
But, Future Boy, you need to take the high road, here. Your friends on the other side of the aisle just lost, and they’re not used to losing. It’s all new. Karl Rove forgot that chapter in his playbook. Should’ve been in there between the chapters on “Never Testify in Front of a Congressional Committee” and “Erase All Emails, Then Conveniently Forget Them.” Don’t be like those guys and rub it in their faces. Just win with dignity, nod politely, and be on your way.
I know what you want. You want an apology from them. Well, it ain’t coming. So, don’t make it all awkward. Just break up. It’s not them, it’s you.
Let them blame you as you snicker off and celebrate. You can drink your champagne, and gobble down your foie gras and cheer on your elitist, socialist, Marxist, communist, friends. But victory dances don’t happen on graves. They happen in end zones. Bury the dead with honor, no matter what you think the after-life will bring them.
Don’t make them feel guilty for eight years of waning international respect or disastrous and deadly foreign policy. Don't blame them for the dollars now worth pennies in your 401K. They know what they did. They pooped in their own diapers and now they have to sit in it a while.
Don’t yell at them, don’t curse. They saw what their votes got them. Let them just think it over. Give them a time out—it’s the new way we do things around here.
Maybe this will lead to a redefinition of their party. If they want Miss Wasilla as their queen, let them bring her back to their hive. I’m telling you now, they’ll lose a few drones. And honey, what could be sweeter?
No, Buck Rogers, your celebrating can’t last long. There’s work to do. You’re not just cleaning up after your party. You’re cleaning up after theirs. And you can’t do it alone. This time, change is big—and bigger than your guy can handle by himself.
So, make nice. Feel good. Job well done.
Suck down the bubbly, wipe those smirky lips on your shirtsleeve and get busy. Team Obama-rama must play clean-up. There’re wars to wrap up, apology letters to send, mop-ups to supervise, and middle-class boo-boos to bandage.
Tell Joe The Plumber to clear the pipes. It’s time for a clean flush.
And remember, there’s nothing worse than a sore loser, except a sore winner.
Oh, and one more thing you sexy future dude—in case I’m entirely wrong and things turned out the other way, blame those bastards. It’s all their fault. Always has been.
© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart
