This is a cruel, cruel and sad story. Usually, I would quote the beginning of a story. In this case, I will quote the end and you, dear readers, will have to follow the link to the Washington Post to figure out how it all started.
Customer: “He’s not pining! He’s passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! He’s expired and gone to meet his maker! He’s a stiff! Bereft of life, he rests in peace! . . . His metabolic processes are now history! He’s off the twig! He’s kicked the bucket, he’s shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleeding choir invisible! This is an ex-parrot!”
9:06 p.m., still in the South Hall: The announcer has just introduced “the next president of the United States.” And with the TV now turned off, it almost seems possible. The confetti guns are loaded and ready. The streamers hang from the ceiling. And the crowd — now up to 500, all but about 10 of them white — is rapturous as Clinton rebukes the “pundits and the naysayers.”
“There are some who wanted to cut this race short!” Clinton says from the faux-wood lectern. They boo.
“I am more determined than ever to carry on this campaign,” she says. They cheer.
“There are many who wanted to declare a nominee before the ballots were counted or even cast,” she says. They boo.
“This race isn’t over yet,” she says. They cheer.
The sound system emits a loud screech of feedback. The confetti cannons fire.
See? She wasn’t dead; she was just pining for the fiords.
