Obama sweeps, McCain jabs, a spooked and jittery nation blinks and stares at the screen, praying for a miracle.
Nineteen days out, the debates over, nothing to do now on either side but shout, lie, smear and spend your last penny hammering home two or three simple phrases.
Democracy as a rugby match, welcome to the scrum.
In other news, Nancy Reagan is in the hospital with a broken pelvis. Apparently she was reaching down to strangle an orphan and she slipped.
Wait. That can't be right.
She was throwing some mentally ill people out into the street (god bless her, she still pitches in) and she slipped.
What is it with us that we forgive someone as soon as they begin to dodder about?
Villains only get worse as they age, more fragile and self-justifying, surrounding themselves with acolytes and slavish supporters.
I don't care if she's 100, smells of lavender and bakes a mean ginger cake, the woman is a harpy and when she finally drops they better put a stake through her tiny heart if they don't want her rising back up.
She couldn't look into a camera without arrogance, self-satisfaction and contempt flooding the frame and cracking the lens.
A horrible woman.
I'm off to the Free Night festivities in Union Square, then an afternoon of auditions for The Truth About Santa.
We're looking for musical elves.
But, then again, aren't we all?