I’m not saying Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton’s historic presidential run is toast. Finished. Down the drain. Caput. Washed up. History. A memory. In the archives. Defunct. Extinct. Artifacto. Took a hike. Sleeping with the fishes. Part of the vast past tense. Joined the choir invisible. Totally obliterated. Entering Sidekick City. Sheer finito. Thoroughly through. Down goes Frasier. Swept away by the Tahiti Express. See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya. So long and sayonara sweetheart. Became an ex-presidential run. Experiencing fossilization. Stick a fork in her — she’s done. Game over, man. Say bye.
No. No. No. That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is that it’s down to the wire but that wire is starting to unravel. She’s hanging by a thread, down to her last dime and the wheels are coming off. It’s two outs, two strikes, nobody on, bottom of the ninth and she’s behind by about 142. Got her back up against the wall because an elephant is standing on the couch with the remote. It’s closing time, and she doesn’t have to go home but she can’t stay here. The window of opportunity has slammed shut on her fingers while hanging outside onto the sill 12 stories up. Her time clock has been punched by a mob of boxing kangaroos. Half of her team is handing her a white flag to wave and the other half is throwing in a towel on her behalf.
She’s down to the last banana in the bunch and even though that one is pretty bruised up, the tarantulas won’t let her go there anyway. She’s going down for the umpteenth time in high seas. The two-minute warning was a minute fifty ago and it’s fourth-and-97. The undertaker is walking this way pulling out a tape measure while whistling to the jingling of the nails in his pocket. The horse she rode in on can smell its stall and is starting to gallop. The fat lady has adjusted her horn helmet and is reaching for the throat spray. Could that be the referee looking at his watch with the whistle in his mouth and he’s starting to pucker? Why yes, it could. Not to mention the train has pulled out of the station and the conductor is waving a lantern from the railing of the caboose.
They say that anything can happen, and it can, except for what the Junior Senator from New York needs to have happen — and that, my friends, simply can’t happen. Or could it? A week is a year in politics. The moon could fall out of the sky. Pigs could sprout wings and fly to Mars. Jeremiah Wright could have another attack of the talkies. Who knows? Bill could rustle up the Arkansas Cavalry to ride to her rescue. Look. Up in the sky. It’s a bird. It’s a plane. No, it’s a flock of Superdelegates. Is that a light at the end of the tunnel? Unh, no, sorry. It’s Obama with a flashlight directing her to the shoulder, and he’s repo-ing the Clinton bandwagon. The math just doesn’t work. We’ve moved from the eminently possible to the minorly theoretical. Unless, that is, something really, really odd happens. Which it very well could. At any moment. But then again, probably not. Oh yeah. It’s over.
by Will Durst
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