What makes a President?
We demand a flood of delegates. 10. 15. 30. 50!
We get a steady trickle. 2, 5, maybe 7 at the most.
We turn blue in the face, yelling and screaming and panicking.
"Idiots!"... "Racists!"... "Irrelevant, fucking, toothless morons!"
We get silence. Probably a post-it note on dry-erase board.
"Consider speech. Maybe early August? Lets discuss."
We rush to the shed for the pitchforks and the torches.
"Get her out! Doesn't she see what she's doing! Who the hell does she think she--"
We get brevity and poetry:
Senator Clinton has shattered myths and broken barriers and changed the America in which my daughters and yours will come of age.
We're sure every slight is Mamet:
"Fuck! Fuck! Shit and fuck!"
We get the play that cannot be named in response:
"It is a tale… full of sound and fury; signifying nothing."
We insist on a finite and definitive end. Super Tuesday. Ohio and Texas. Pennsylvania. Texas and Ohio. Tomorrow. And hour from now. ARE WE THERE YET!
We get a slow path through the woods, whose inevitable destination gradually reveals itself... the trees slowly thinning mile by mile. Wait... wait... look... up ahead there.
What makes a President?
Three words.
Sure and steady.