Last week:

Never did get my vote by mail packet. Wife did. I can’t tell if it was the Russians, or “clerical error”, or the deliberate Republican repression of big, dumb, epileptic guys. Whatever. Somebody is machinating something. If machinate is a word. I’d look it up but my dictionary is untrustable. Benghazi, Ben Turpin, Ben Franklin. Or just Ben, the rat.

My vote by mail packet came yesterday, just in time. Now voting is convenient. Even more convenient is that the registrar of voters changed my name to Mrs. Elia K. Fliegman, which I had been planning to do, actually, and this save me reams of inconvenient paperwork. This does sound eerily like one of Woody Allen’s bits when he was a stand up comic and actually funny, but it’s real life, and hence tragic. Think of Mrs. Elia K. Fliegman waking up transformed into a giant drummer. Think of poor Mr. Fliegman. Suddenly his wife is an epileptic weirdo, and my wife is stuck with Mrs. Fliegman’s entire collection of Hummels.

It’s the Russians’ hand. There’s no doubt about it.

Anyway, I considered voting by mail as Mrs. Elia K. Fliegman, but just my luck I’d be detected by a Trump poll watcher. Imagine my shame. You don’t look like Mrs. Elia K. Fliegman, Chuck Todd would say, and I’d deck him. Who wouldn’t?