chapotraphouse

Lo, when the breath fails mid-committee speech, down ride the Voter Valkyries, golden-lanyarded and grave, they bear the fallen Democrats — who perish not in scandal but in decorum — to Valhalla, where nothing shall fundamentally change.

There waits Odin, god of wisdom and moderate compromise, parliamentarian of the gods and god of parliamentarians. In his hall no reform stirs, no firebrand speaks, none disturbs the adults in the room.

Each morn the moderate einherjar rise to canvass and debate, to lose with dignity. By night they celebrate the rules and norms, they feast on Sæhrímnir the Avocado and sip Heiðrún’s Chardonnay in bipartisan peace.

At Ragnarök, the final election day, they ride once more to reach across the aisle and secure the the most noble of defeats.