Everybody and their aunt and uncle wants credit for turning Texas blue. The man who put up two yard signs is waiting for his appointment to the cabinet. His aunt says she could’ve done it with one.
It reminds me of the old joke about the organs holding a meeting to decide who ran the body. I imagine the Texas version went something like this.
“I’m the brain,” said the campaign consultant. “I knew exactly how to win Texas. I have the PowerPoint to prove it.”
“I’m the heart,” said the candidate. “My name was on the ballot.” The campaign treasurer, speaking for the stomach, said, “Your name was on the ballot for free. I’m still paying for the signs.”
“We’re the lungs,” said the party officials. “We’ve been telling people for twenty years that Texas was about to turn blue.” The liver, representing the pundits, said, “So have we, as of Wednesday morning.”
“We’re the hands,” said the volunteers. “We knocked on the doors.” The feet, representing the voters, said, “We walked past all your damn signs, stood in line, and voted. Can we sit down now?”
In the old joke, the asshole goes on strike, and the whole body finds out how much power he has. In the Texas version, the asshole was in the White House (Trump), working overtime. Every time he opened his mouth, somebody who’d been thinking about staying home decided to vote.
I’ll give the candidates, the organizers, the donors, and even the aunt their share of the credit. But I’ve coached baseball, and I know how to score this one.
The voters get the win. The asshole gets an assist.
The organs fight over who turned Texas blue. The voters’ boots look exhausted. And Trump, the anus, takes a bow: “You’re welcome.”
