There I was, somewhere in the Midwest, struggling with my composure (my composure was NOT winning) amid shouts of “We do not believe you’ll deliver on your promises!” I stood there, head down at the podium, shuffling some papers — position papers, complete with indecipherable crayon drawings sent by Mississippi schoolchildren — stalling for time, for assistance, for delivery, for anything.
Where was Dirty Harry when I needed him? Standing there, my exemplary life passing before me, I could not for the life of me even remember what I’d promised. So — Politics 101 — I ignored the cries of the people and motioned my campaign manager, Deb Callihan, to start the teleprompter.
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