Disgusted And Not Amused

You see, I’ve been quiet over the last couple of days. Maine has turned into Florida when it comes to counting ballots.

Dumb. Dumber. Dumbest.

I can understand the logic behind telling each and every town caucus “Hey, we’ve got to wrap this up by a certain date. Schedule your stuff to happen by the 11th, or your votes won’t get counted.”

It’s a non-binding straw poll. That I get. On the scale of meaning, this ranks up there with the lottery numbers found in fortune cookies or the daily horoscope. You can read into them whatever you want.

It’s also Maine. Storms happen. Knowing the risks, Washington County called off their caucus on account of the big storm on the way. The storm blew out to sea, along with the hopes of everyone who wanted to cast a preference vote in the ugly contest. (I refuse to call it a beauty contest. You’d have to tie a pork chop around this quartets necks to get the dog to play with them.)

What has me irritated is simple. Counting ballots, calling them in… and finding subtle subterfuge. It may be intentional, it may not. It still has the reek of cat box stench to it.

All that stuff about ballot fraud potential earlier last year? Now fodder for laughter. Count every vote? not unless you take your shoes off and grab an abacus.

Aroostook County votes all lumped into one pile, not separated out by township.

Votes for “Other” not being counted. Note Vic Berardelli called in his caucus results as the secretary, casting his one vote for “other.” It doesn’t show on the state results list.

South Portland closing “at the caucus” registration early.

Kennebec County totals wrong.

Waldo County results from 5 days earlier not included.

Portland tally wrong on “official” results, numbers for two candidates switched. Add to this the fact that the delegate selection was invalidated.

Added up, the entire state looks about as bright as a peanut bulb in a neon universe.

Somewhere, I get the sickening feeling that you get when you’re driving down the road at night, just barely catch a glimpse of something covered with fur, and feel the telltale double-thump under the wheels. As a state, we may have just killed a dog in the fight.

But it was our dog. Mr Webster? Step up.

Or step down.