Yesterday morning I had breakfast with my father, who was in town for the weekend. I told him about the fantasy I had in August that a giant sinkhole would open up under Madison Square Garden during the Republican National Convention and swallow the entire party whole.
My father replied, “See, Faustus, that’s your problem. You refuse to believe that it actually happened.”
“I refuse to believe that the Republicans won?”
“No, you refuse to believe that the sinkhole did open up and swallow them all whole. There are no Republicans anymore.”
“But what about the election?”
Even in childhood I was a fairly good practitioner of denial. But my father–he is a true artist.