Not normally a superstitious person, I was reticent to
trundle down to my polling station and cast my vote in the 2016 presidential
election. After all, in 2008 and again
in 2012, my guy got shellacked.
I had an 8:45 AM appointment with my pulmonologist during
which I learned that there had been an issue with the refrigerator used to
store vaccines for the flu and pneumonia.
After I left the doctor’s office I went to my local pharmacy and got
both shots. I was feeling slightly
invincible. “How about a bite to eat and
then girding your loins to tackle that early vote?” I asked myself.
I pointed the car in the direction of my polling station to
find folks lined up around the building and out to the street. I thought about aborting my plans, but
reasoned that the lines weren’t going to get any shorter so I parked the car
and assumed my position in line.
People were friendly.
No one was on their phone. Some
conversations were fairly audible, others were hushed. About 20 minutes in, I heard a woman
somewhere in the back of the line begin to hack and wheeze and cough. I thought, “This is my chance to be a real
smartass.” So…I hollered quizzically, “Hillary? Is that you?”
The reaction from those in line was priceless. “Lock her up!
Lock her up!” they chanted. I
made a funny.
When I finally made it inside and a poll worker escorted me
to my voting machine, I looked down at the first screen totally unprepared for
the impact of seeing the name of the first ever unindicted felon on the ballot
for President of the United States. This
was a moment in history—a chance to stake my political claim—to stop a corrupt
bitch from being coronated.
Today, I canceled out Colin Powell’s vote.
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