On the eve of Election Day, 2016, I was run over by a Nissan while crossing the street. The next day, the entire country was run over by a big, orange bus.
Two years later, I’m mostly healed. The country, however, just keeps moving deeper into an intensive care unit staffed with butchers.
Small wounds are being wrenched open; broken legs are treated with hammers. Infections are encouraged to spread their filth. And the big orange bus keeps careening down whatever road meets its need of the moment, running down anyone bold enough to cross its path.
If you’re reading this newspaper, you care enough to support truth and probably have already voted. My request is that you find a friend less likely to vote and invite them to go to the polls with you. Offer them lunch after you’ve each driven a nail into one of the bus’ tires.
Just be sure to look both ways when you cross the street. There are more of those buses than ever, and some may be on your ballot.