I told myself I wouldn’t cry last night.
When I watched Hillary say, “I may not be at the ICE BUCKET………CHALLENGE. But I was………NOMINATED!” I tried to not cry.
When I watched Bernie say, “Congratulations. To Senator. Clinton! But the fight will contin–” I tried to not cry.
When I watched Donald say, “Thank you to the voters for nominating me — we love the voters, don’t we? Now, that judge’s ethnicity, we know that doesn’t matter to me. But how can a judge — I just wanna know — how can a judge who throws his daughter a quinceanera be impartial, tell me how,” I tried not to cry.
But when I saw respected newsman Wolf Blitzer announce “We have a Nissan Ultima Breaking Election News Report: Hillary Clinton has just secured enough superdelegates to win the Democratic nomination,” I started bawling like a five-year-old child looking at a picture of Rand Paul.
It’s over. It’s all over. Just like that, the best four months of our lives are over.
Every four years, we are blessed with the Presidential primaries: a rollicking year-long festival where common folks watch like groundlings as powerful and persuasive pundits, like yours truly, debate who’s up and who’s down; a carnival where the viral fails and the dark money race and the winners and losers of the week determine who will be the next leader of the free world.
In the primaries, we make friends we never thought we’d make. We feel the highest highs as we laugh at viral moments and cheer at mic drop moments. We feel the lowest lows when the discourse is demeaned and when harassment is high. We slam coffee during the day and Michelob at night, both chased by Diet Pepsi Wild Cherry — with an extra stevia kick we added ourselves. Our fingernails grow small and jagged as we watch results.
We live. We laugh. We Love.
The primaries are the goddamn playoffs of politics. While meathead sports-likers look forward to the “Supers Bowl,” we refined intellectuals know that real heroics are to be found in the arena of debates, fundraising figures, caucuses, Sunday morning talkshow roundtables, and predictions.
Some say we should be happy, because the horrible rancor and hatred of this primary is over. But I’ve already forgotten all the badness. I’ll only remember the fun I had; and I hope you will, too.
Some of the greatest highs in my life came from these every-four-years bacchanals of pure political pleasure. In 1980, I told my dad, Col. Dig Sr., that Ted Kennedy was disrespectful to second-guess Jimmy Carter for the failed Iranian hostage rescue mission. I was rewarded with a rare approving grunt from the old man. In 2000, I broke the story of Bill Bradley Bros harassing respected journalists on AOL Instant Messenger.
This year I destroyed elections coward Nate Silver and his henchman Harry Enten by predicting more primaries more accurately than FiveThirtyEight — all without breaking a sweat.
The greatest joy in my life is being a father. I love watching my round son not only learn from me but also become his own man. I feel the same thing with you, the Digheads. We’ve been through a lot together, from Trump’s vicious attacks on my character, to the Bernie Bros’ vicious attacks on my masculinity, to the series of “stuck elevator” incidents in April.
I wish the primary could last forever. I wish we didn’t have to wait another goddamned 11 months for the 2020 election to begin. Alas.
With a quiver in my lip, I say to you Digheads: the primary is over.
But with a bright smile I flash across my now-wet face, I command you: Buckle up, here comes the general election!
It’s gonna be a fun ride through November, baby!
Carl “The Dig” Diggler has covered national politics for 30 years, and is the author of “Think-ocracy: The Rise Of The Brainy Congressman”. Got a question for the Dig? E-mail him at email@example.com or Tweet to @carl_diggler. And check out his predictions at SixThirtyEight.com.
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