A friend of mine called me today with some interesting news.
“Jeff,” he said, “I know we’re like family, and I almost didn’t want to tell you this … I’m kind of worried that you won’t think the same of me…”
I could hear the grin over the telephone. Did he get engaged? Holy crap, I thought to myself, I’ll bet he got down on one knee and popped the quest–
“I changed my voter registration today. In the eyes of Pennsylvania, I’m now a democrat.”
That’s right, folks — today was the last day for Pennsylvanians to register or change their registration for the April 22 primary here in The Keystone State, and unlike the previous two votes in Ohio and Texas, this is not an open primary. Who knew that, this far removed from the contests in Iowa and New Hampshire, Pennsylvania would be as hotly contested as it is?
For the past week or so, the streets of Philadelphia have been teeming with get-out-the-vote campaigners, with sidewalk chalk renderings of campaign signs. Generally, come time for the primaries here in Philadelphia, the only campaign with a presence in the City of Brotherly Love is Landon Larouche and his army of nutjobs.
Pennsylvania does matter, and in talking with my new democratic friend–I wonder if fake liberals still harbor that same granola and patchouli smell like the real ones?–I realized that with the crossover vote frenzy in Ohio and Texas, I could have made a killing marketing little “Safe Voting” finger condoms for republicans who mustered up the will to actually pull the lever or push the button for Hillary Clinton.
I could see it now:
A man approaches the septuagenarian at the polling identification table in his local high school gym. He is wearing a baseball cap which reads “GLOCK FIREARMS” and a shirt which reads “RE-DEFEAT COMMUNISM” atop a photo of Hillary Clinton (buy the shirt at the America’s Right store!) and, when asked by the sweet old lady, offers his name and takes a spot in the Democratic Party voting line.
As the person in front of him closes the curtain for their own date with democracy, the man pulls from his back pocket a little silver package, about the size of two postage stamps. He fumbles with it nervously, and finally rips it open. The pungent smell of ammonia and lysol fills the air around him, as he gently rolls the latex contents of the package onto his index finger, snapping it a little too briskly as he reached his knuckle.
He reaches the open booth, and closes the curtain behind him. Stifling the dry heaves, he pushes the button next to Hillary Clinton’s name.
Later, when asked by a friend at work if he voted in the primary, the man simply casts his gaze to the floor.
“Yes,” he says sheepishly, before a glimmer of salvation lights afire in his eyes and he picks his head up. “But I didn’t feel a thing!”