Memo to the Superstitious: YOU ARE DUMB.
Do not talk to me about hemlines. Do not talk to me about relative heights. Mention the number of letters in the names and I will desperately attempt to violate the laws of physics by making the atoms of my foot occupy the same space as the atoms of your genitals. Speak to me of elementary school students and I'll defenestrate you one organ at a time.
There is only one reasonably accurate predictor of who will be the next President. It's happening today, and roughly eight times out of ten, what happens in voting booths across the country on Election Day accurately determines who the next President will be. So shove your superstitions up your vote-hole.
See, for one thing, if it weren't for all you superstitious fuckwads who desperately seek causation where there is only occasional correlation, we wouldn't be in this fucking mess to begin with. Superstition is like racism. It's not a fundamentally Republican trait, but Republicans couldn't win jack shit without the backing of the excessively superstitious.
This is because it's easier for the average person to believe in mysterious forces than it is to believe in NUMBERS. There have only been 54 presidential elections. None of the stuff they compare it to has been going that entire time. Five elections. Ten elections. Just that one time four years ago. People, despite what Nader dreams in his secret wet dreams, there are only two options. Of course shit's going to match up with a 50/50 shot every four years. It's like all those assholes who say that celebrities die in threes. Celebrities die in ones by the thousands. Assholes just stop after every third one to shout "EUREKA".
The Washington Redskins, in command of the fate of the Presidency? That hardly seems fair. At least we could, you know, tie the fate of our nation to a team without a racist name. Maybe the St. Louis Cardinals, just to dilute the influence the Catholic Cardinals seem to think they have. Then, if the football team loses, they can be denied communion. "You've just lost the game that decides the presidential election! What now!" "I'm going... to HELL!"
Weekly Reader's polling schoolkids? Weekly Reader needs to go back to its role in this world, pimping Judy Blume and Goosebumps. Children are too busy thinking up darndest things to say to follow politics. Sure, you can slap Bush and Kerry in front of them, and they'll pick whoever they heard on their parents say they liked, or whichever one looks more like a funny monkey, but you better hope it's not predicting shit. 'Cause I guarantee you, the year they put Harry Potter on that poll along with the candidates, all us muggles will be in Gitmo by the day after inauguration.
MASK SALES. Halloween Mask Sales. Accurately predicting every election since 1980! All... six of them. You know who buys those rubber caricature masks? LAZY PEOPLE. Lazy people who OWN A SUIT. And have thirty bucks. And live near a strip mall with a Halloween store. And nobody's buying these masks to make a political statement. People bought Clinton masks so that they can wave cigars at women. People buy Bush masks because they like bananas. People buy Kerry masks because last year, they went as a ZOMBIE and still have the clothes and the Jell-O brain mold.
Futures markets. Stock markets. Bookies. RAND DOGRAPING MCNALLY going through and searching to see which candidate has more places with parts of their NAME IN THEM. "Georgia? One for Bush! Kerryville? Shit, it's tied! Now we have to see which five Supreme Court judges have their names attached to towns!". Asshats.
You may have heard people say things like, "There's no such thing as coincidence." These people are not to be trusted. Because they'll go on to say things like "Everything happens for a reason", and pretty soon, they're sending you porcelain angels when you have a cold. They can't be trusted. Do not let them fix your major appliances or drive you to the doctor. They'll fuck it up, and while you're lying there on the ground with a burst appendix and a dryer lint filter embedded in the base of your skull, they'll tell you that the horoscope that day told Scorpios that the coming weeks would be full of strife and contusions.
How many times does Linda Hamilton have to jam a giant knife into a picnic table before you people get it through your heads? There is no fate but what we make, so get your asses out there, collect your round red sticker, and pray to whatever god or gods you hold dear that some Mary Kiffmeyer, Katherine Harris, President of Diebold, or Supreme Court asshole with a lot more power to make fate than you do doesn't decide to fuck you and your vote over come nightfall.
Vote And Die.