Until the fat lady sings

The Democratic presidential campaign is nearing the end. I know because I can hear the fat lady singing. And whining, screeching, blubbering, and shaking in her pantsuit while shaking a finger at me. I don’t know much about opera but this soap opera is officially worse than The Bill and Monica Show.

Speaking of fat ladies, I honestly thought Hillary would stop digging her nails into my back since playing the race card blew up in her face last month. Now she’s playing the experience card. Maybe she figures that if it worked for John McCain, it could work for her.

David Plouffe clued me into the fat lady analogy. He came up to me in the plane tonight with the latest edition of The New York Times and said, “Guess what? The fat lady is singing.”

I said, “Oprah?” David smirked, then laughed, then withdrew the laugh because he wasn’t really sure I made a joke or just didn’t understand what it means when the fat lady sings. “No, not Oprah,” he said. “Hillary. She’s singing at the top of her lungs accusing you of this and that or something else. It’s like the fat lady singing at the opera. It’s over. She’s on the run.”

“Oh, Hillary. She’s the fat lady? I really hadn’t noticed, but now that you brought it up…”

Someone has to explain all this to me. What does a fat lady singing in an opera have to do with finishing something? All the women that sing in an opera are fat. Except Anna Netrebko. She is one hot opera singer. Anyway, I have to assume that a fat lady sings at the end of the opera, and somehow that became analogous to the end of a game, which is now being used to signify the end of Hillary’s presidential campaign.

Fine. Whatever. That works for me except for one thing. Fat women cannot be trusted to do they say they’re going to do and what you want them to do or when you want them to do it. Sure, Oprah got all gushy on television and came to Iowa and helped me score a great victory over Hillary, but I haven’t seen her since.

I feel so used.