Fareed Zakaria could smell it, overwhelming and painful in its totality, a tattoo inside his nostrils; he ran from his tasteful East Side apartment which was featured in Better Homes & Pundits without even fucking the nanny. He remembered his makeup, though. Fareed does his own makeup. He doesn’t trust the girl with his face.
Down the stairs and SLAM into Chris Cilizza, who was visibly erect even after finding time to fuck the nanny. They ran together, the two fierce centrists, slapping old ladies while demanding that they look at the bigger picture, and knifing children who would not consider context. They begged the postman to bomb the Middle East.
“This time, it will work,” they murmured, and when the postman would not accede, they ate his ears.
Van Jones was nude and covered in lamb’s blood. “Is it Tuesday yet?” he masturbated at strangers.
And they ran, the pundits, though they did not know why. A yearning from the void had called them. A speech. It was a speech, they barely intuited. He would give a speech. The Dumbest Fuck In America would read from a paper he had not prepared, and this called for pundits to proclaim his somethingness. There was presidentiality to bestow on a wetbrained shithead, and only they could do that.
This is it. This is the pivot.
They were more pundit than man by now.
The sky turned orange and they knew that it was a sign.
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