"It should be!" says [identifying name omitted]. "The signs mean things - great an terrible things! Omens an miracles an dogs marrying cats an goats born with two heads, stars an moons an green clovers! Dark things to come! There's a wolf at the door! There's a bear in the woods!" "Maybe the bear will eat the wolf," says me. "Then we can all settle down an get a pizza with the bear!" "Your commie bear cannot save you now!" says [identifying name omitted]. "Wolves are the pirahna of the forest. They can skeletonize a cow in under thirty seconds!" "And the bear is the cow of the forest," says me. "Which is why forest-farmers milk bears for honey - or as it is technically known, hunny."Or is it Column B? Excerpt:
It is only now that the dinner party lion emerges to stake his claim to greatness. While others quiver with pre-election anxiety, their mood rising and collapsing with the merest flicker of the polls, he alone radiates certainty. He alone can read the internals, cross-tabs and trends, can parse Gallup and Zogby and emerge with clear answers. He alone can captivate a gathering, while men hang eagerly on his words and women undress him with their eyes. He begins his dinner party performance with a combination of impressive name-dropping and crushing banality: "I was talking to Karl the other day - Karl Rove - and he mentioned that winning the most electoral votes is the key to winning the election. And when I bumped into Tim - Tim Russert - at Colin and Alma's place, he agreed." By this point soup will be cooling in the bowls. His dinner companions will be waiting for him to validate their highest hopes or underline their fears. The lion must be careful not to utter a final prediction too quickly.