Good morning and welcome into the "Mount Doom" edition of Carnival of Fools. The armies are arrayed upon the field, the hour of clash has come nigh, and here we are standing barefoot and ragged near the crest of a fiery volcano, half-dead and with no certain purpose other than to see it through, come wrack or ruin. Except that, this time, the story is written by Martin instead of Tolkien, and there are no magical eagles to fly us out of Mordor at the final moment. No, this time I'm pretty sure there is no happy ending. But I'm exhausted and at the least happy to be here with you, at the end of all things. (Unless the recounts drag into December, that is.) This Election Is God's Judgment upon Us, Again I'm out of wordsmithery; I now think Harris will narrowly edge out a victory (independents seem to be breaking in favor of her across all states), and, should this come to pass, I fear the outcome will be even more bitterly disputed — likely upon similarly spurious grounds — than it was in 2020. Did I write it up the opposite way last week? That indeed I did. But momentum matters, and this last week has seen undecided voters seemingly making their ... |
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