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Election Day

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‘Get up at the butt crack of not-even dawn and save time in line!’ Does this look like saving time in line to you?

Later, lines will be even longer.

Later, it won’t be dark and cold and bleary.

It will if what’s-his-face wins.

What, he’s going to blot out the sun? I think you’re giving him way too much credit. Now let’s get back to how you were utterly and completely wrong about how dragging my ass out of bed at insanity o’clock would mean a short line. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

I brought you coffee and breakfast and the latest issue of Killer Jugs to read in line, so how about you drop it?

Admit it!

Oh, we’re not going through that again.

Admit it!

Remember what happened last time you uttered that phrase?

Admit it! Admit it! Admit it! Admit it!

SHUT UP!

You really shouldn’t talk to your friend that way.

Ha!

What are you smirking at?

Even kids who can’t tell fantasy from reality can see how you abuse me.

What are you talking about?

Look at her boobs. Or more accurately, look at her boobs again, but this time pay attention to the words. “Petrelli for Congress.” That’s the incest dude from Heroes.

House! I wouldn’t be so rude as to – Wait. The “incest dude”?

He’s totally doing his brother.

What? He’s not.

The shirt’s thematically appropriate.

Keep telling yourself that.

Why do you think the two brothers on Heroes are having sex?

It’s called subtext.

I don’t see it. You’re nuts.

I can’t help it if you’re blind to all the looks and the body language and the way they talk to each other.

They’re brothers! Brothers do that!

Ooooookay.

You are not insinuating things about my family.

All I said was “okay.”

I had a perfectly normal childhood.

All I said was “okay.”

There was nothing going on between me and my brothers!

Seriously, Wilson –

And Cap Van Dien’s pants always fell down! He was phobic about belts!

Excuse me, but would you like a sample ballot?

Thank God.

I – Oh, yes, thank you very much.

Democratic or Republican? We have both.

What are Hippie Lady and a Bob Dylan clone doing with Republican ballots?

House, you of all people should know that how you look on the outside –

For that matter, why do you have Democratic ballots? Shouldn’t you be Nader fans, or Green Party, or one of the umpty-ump Socialist parties?

We can get you sample ballots for those, too.

Yeah, like I’m going to vote for the freaks who couldn’t win an election if both the major candidates turned zombie. I’m asking why you’re not voting for them.

We’re volunteers, sir, supporting the voting process in general. We can’t share our opinions on the candidates.

What kind of fascist government doesn’t let volunteers have opinions?

House.

Cheney’s government.

The wallflower speaks! I thought your mouth was stuck shut in that tight-lipped pissed-your-pants grin.

Do you plan to insult every single person at this polling place?

You dragged me here kicking and screaming; you get to deal with the consequences. Seriously, what’s the deal with your mouth, girly?

Nothing. You’re a Cheney fan?

I find sinister things lurking in the shadows fascinating. I’m also impressed how he got away with shooting his best friend in the face. Because God knows I’ve been tempted to do the exact same thing.

House, are you OK?

I’ve been standing in the same spot for twenty minutes. What do you think?

I’ll get the chair.

You’re not getting the chair.

It’s just in my trunk; I’ll be right back.

You’re not getting the chair. Wilson, come back. I don’t want the damned chair!

That’s what all the Death Row inmates say.

Ha, ha, funny girl. Ooh, Whoppers!

HEY! Those are mine.

What? We’re all in this hellish situation; we’ve got to band together. You can have some of my coffee.

I don’t want your coffee. Wait a minute. This cup is empty.

There’s some backwash in there. Mm, malted milk.

Here’s your cup.

Keep it. Like I said, we’re all in this together.

Except I’m not. I voted early.

Yeah? Who’d you vote for?

Obama.

Then why were you hassling me about the Whoppers? You should be fine with redistribution of wealth.

Please take your cup.

Nothing doing. No takes-backsies. Unless, of course, you want to fill it up again. Black, light sugar. Then I’d be happy to take it off your hands.

You can have some of mine.

You ashed in it, didn’t you?

No. Oh damn, went out. Gotta light?

Dr. Amanda said I’m not allowed to play with the pretty flames any more.

A nutbag. Great. I can’t believe I got out of bed for this.

At least I’m not a Contradancer for Obama. What the hell’s a Contradancer?

You don’t know want to know.

Actually, you’re right; I don’t want to know. I’m not sitting in that damn chair.

You’re sitting in the chair. I made a special effort to borrow this for you yesterday; I remembered to bring it; I fought my way back through the crowd to go to my car and get it. You’re sitting in it.

Yeah, yeah, you’re such the martyr. You’re like Jesus! Right down to the devoted followers.

What?

Duck and squirrel behind you. They came all the way across the parking lot in your footsteps.

That’s not a duck.

It looks like a duck. It walks like a duck. I’m positive when you give it the big ol’ hug it’s looking for, it’ll sound like a duck. It’s a duck.

It’s a drake.

What?

It’s a drake. Male of the species.

And you know this because... you molested it behind your car? Is that why it’s following you around, to get another taste of the Jimmy Wilson magic?

It’s a drake because of the head.

So he molested you.

The head on top of its body. Is green. Which means it’s a drake.

Verily, you overflow with useless knowledge.

Says the man who can sing Beatles songs in Urdu.

Helps me pick up chicks.

Sit in the chair.

I’m not sitting in the chair.

Can I sit in the chair?

No way, crip. It’s my chair!

I’m only asking because you don’t want to use it. Didn’t you say we were all in this together?

If the past two months have taught us anything, it’s that the only right thing to do is to socialize the losses and privatize the profits.

House, not this again.

Excuse me?

It’s simple. When profits are great, to each his own. To the victor goes the spoils. When things go down the crapper, everybody gets to share. Isn’t that lovely?

It doesn’t seem like the fairest way to run an economy.

Well –

Fairness? Who said anything about fairness? What are you, un-American?

Non-American, actually.

Then what the hell are you doing here?

Observing. It’s interesting.

Wilson, you’ve got a back-up prescription pad in your emergency kit, right? I think we need some lithium here.

She seems perfectly sane to me.

Not for her; for me. It’s still early; we’re still stuck in this stupid line; and I am going stark-raving mad.

Drink your coffee.

I drank my coffee.

Where’s the cup? You didn’t litter, did you?

Nah, pawned it off on some bleeding-heart liberal to throw away.

Who?

I don’t know; she’s gone.

You made somebody lose her place in line, to throw away your trash? That’s pretty low.

One, she was just walking by; she wasn’t in line. Two, this is me. For me, that’s not low. In fact, it’s so not low that it’s actually high.

Like you.

I wish.

I don’t have dope, but I have a flask. Will that do?

You’re a lifesaver.

House, don’t – The sun hasn’t even come up yet!

And you think I care because?

It’s a work day! We’re due at work in two hours!

You’re due at work in two hours. My starting time, per my contract, is half past kiss-my-ass. Dude, flask is empty.

Chick, thank you very much. And I only brought the small one because I didn’t think I’d meet anybody I wanted to share with.

Is that so?

Please don’t encourage him.

Why wouldn’t I encourage him? Hey, I know a quiet little place near here where we can get another drink after we vote, if you want.

So Wilson wasn’t lying when he said being a responsible citizen would have ladies falling at my feet.

Yes, I was.

Yes, he was. I just have a thing for tall men with gorgeous eyes.

And I have a thing for women who have a thing for me.

House! You are not picking up women at a polling place.

She seems to be picking me up. And what’s the matter, don’t like anyone moving in on your territory?

Oh, I didn’t realize you were together. Sorry for hitting on your man.

We’re not together. I mean, we’re here together now, but we’re not together in general.

He just can’t commit. ... Oh, God, even as a joke, I can’t say that with a straight face.

You’re GAY?

You’re obnoxious.

So that’s a yes.

Hon.

What? I was just asking if they liked the BUTTSEX.

Excuse me?

Butt sex. SODOMY. INTERCOURSE OF AN ANAL NATURE.

Hon, please. They’re gay; they know what it is. Can you be a little quieter?

We’re not –

No, I can not be quieter. I feel sick; we’ve been standing here forever; and there are way too many old people clogging this place up and staring at me like I have two heads instead of DYING like they’re SUPPOSED TO in the natural order of things.

Hon –

I’m not gay.

Yeah, right.

Even the dykes don’t believe you, Wilson.

Who are you calling a dyke?

A couple of dykes, apparently.

House, that’s really uncalled –

Lesbos. RUG MUNCHERS. MUFF DIVERS. VAGITARIANS.

You’re an asshole.

Actually, he’s the asshole; I’m the dick. Sodomy-wise, I mean. Wanna double-date?

House, why do you have to always be like this?

We moved around too much when I was a kid, and my father never loved me. Also, I’m in excruciating pain, and you won’t make with the morphine.

Sit in the chair.

I’m not sitting in the chair.

Sit.

Not sitting.

Then stop being such a little bitch.

Ooh, James Wilson, mouth on you.

Eat your breakfast.

Already ate my breakfast.

Still hungry?

Gonna give me something else to eat?

What? Oh. Ha ha, funny. Couple of kids just set up a bake sale down there. I’ll get you something if you’re hungry.

You mean, if it will shut me up.

Exactly.

Whatever has the most sugar.

I don’t think so.

Hey, do you know where the overflow parking is?

No, Compensating-for-Small-Penis Guy. Do I look like a traffic cop?

You look like a jerk!

Look like one, or sound like one? How long have you confused those two senses? You might want to get checked for synesthesia.

What –

Babe, let’s just get out of here. The line is way too long anyway. We’ll come back later.

But –

It’s the smart thing to do. And besides, I want to go back to bed.

Don’t forget the penis elongater!

Have fun standing around for no reason. Bye.

Bitch.

Sheppard, where are you going? I mean, it's not like it's my fault that I had to come to Princeton to correct Ostriker's clearly insane theories when your whole stupid country decided that this was the year it suddenly wanted to care about its electoral process, teeming hordes of voters who can't leave a nanometer of space on the sidewalks.

I told you; I’ve got to get a message to one of the volunteers at this post today. Excuse me, sir. You’re blocking the sidewalk.

Line starts back there.

I’m not voting. Just dropping off a message for someone inside.

Isn't that what all voting is? Back of the line.

Look. I’m active duty military stationed… a long way away from here. I voted by absentee ballot a month ago, I promise. That satisfy you that I'm not going to “cut”?

No. Back of the line.

OK, Captain Stubborn. I realize the ridiculous earliness of the hour and the mind-boggling inanity of the electoral college system may have dulled your faculties to the extent of preschool safety scissors, but if you’ll take a moment to look, the line’s moving. Even if he was going to vote, which he’s not, wouldn’t it be more time-efficient to just let him go than to stand around here arguing?

No, given that time spent arguing would otherwise be spent standing in the line not arguing, and even if it was more time efficient, it’s not as interesting as even this mild diversion from the tedium. You gonna vote?

Good god, no. I’m Canadian.

Sheppard, this guy giving you a hard time? I can take care of him.

Nah, he was just about to let us by.

Whoa, big guy. I’ve never seen an Obama thug this close-up before.

What’s an o-bama?

A black man who doesn’t know who Obama is? Where do you live, the moon?

Actually –

He’s not American. He’s, um, Samoan.

Western or American?

I just said he wasn’t American.

He means Western Samoa or American Samoa, and it doesn’t matter because neither can vote in the Presidential election, so you don’t have to worry about him cutting you in line. Or Rodney, or me. Scout’s honor. Let’s go.

I’ve always hated the Scouts!

Well, that was unpleasant, Sheppard. Yet another reason I don’t see why –

Lady coming through.

Would you mind getting the door for me?

Sure, ma’am, my pleasure.

Why, thank you. What a polite young man. And your hair is so… interesting.

Yes, ma’am.

And yours, too. And you have a nice smile.

I do? I’m not often told that.

Try smiling more often, and maybe you’ll get more compliments.

Huh.

Bye, ma’am.

Getting picked up by an elder. A sign of honor, McKay.

What?

’Fore you know it, you’ll be sharing a blanket with her.

What? Oh! You –

All right; inside, everybody. Let’s get this over with so McKay can go yell at Physics Guy.

Ostriker.

Whoever.

Oh, the line’s moving now. Excellent.

Where’s my food?

Where’s your chair?

Back there.

What’s it doing back there?

Line moved; chair didn’t. Give me my food!

Sorry, can’t. I’m too busy; I have to go get the chair.

Cry more, Wendy Whiner.

Excuse me. Did a really tall guy, a really talkative guy, and a really… um… slinky guy walk by here?

“Slinky” guy?

You know, kind of… loping? Laid-back. Military.

What bizarre universe are you from that you equate loping and laid-back with military?

Whatever. Did they come by here?

Went inside to give a message to some poll worker.

Oh! That’s me. Good.

You work polls? ’Cause I’ve got a pole that could use some –

House! I’m sorry; he’s just a little off his medication schedule. He doesn’t mean it.

Um, OK. Bye.

”Off my medication schedule”? Well, I guess, if you count the fact that normally I would be sleeping and therefore not in need of pain medication, instead of standing around doing nothing in a colossal waste of time.

Here’s your food. Bagel and a cupcake. Shut up and eat.

What are you doing?

I’m sitting in the chair.

But it’s my chair.

You didn’t want it, so I’ll take it.

How am I supposed to eat two different things, walk, and hold my cane at the same time?

Should’ve thought of that before you refused to sit for approximately the nine millionth time.

Give me my chair.

No.

Then hold my food.

No.

Then give me more meds.

No.

You –

You brought this on yourself! You’ve been a whiny, argumentative complainer the whole morning. Don’t come crying to me for sympathy now.

You’re really mean to your dad.

He’s not my father, and I’m not being mean.

It sure looks like it.

What are you laughing at, House?

Everybody sees how you abuse me.

Ha, ha, keep laughing, Pops. The kid thinks you’re my father. In other words, old. Suck on that.

You’re really mean. I was going to offer you another cupcake on account of the extra donation you gave us, but now I’m not.

You could give it to me, instead.

Here you go. Don’t let him boss you around. Stand up for your rights.

Good advice. Thank you. Bye now, and good luck with your bake sale!

You suck, House.

Me? You’re the one who’s really mean. Gimme the chair now.

Here. Bastard.

Heh.

Look, the first voters are starting to come back out. It won’t be long now.

Are you lying or being hopelessly optimistic? Because I have different mocks for each of those. Hey! What are you looking at?

The woman who just walked by, pretty, with dark hair.

Color me surprised.

She was looking at us.

Alert the media!

Hmph. It was an odd look, like... she knew something about us.

Probably that I’m a secret cutter, and you’ve got a weird sentimental attachment to purple condoms.

I never should’ve told you that.

No, you shouldn’t have.

And does connecting those two thoughts like that mean that you are a secret cutter?

These wounds won't seem to heeeeeal! This pain is just too reeeeeal!

I will pay you cash money to stop singing that song.

Done and done. Twenty bucks; hand it over.

I think you have a nice voice.

Twenty bucks, and I’ll resume singing. Not that song, though.

I don’t have twenty dollars, sorry. What will... a dollar forty-seven get me?

The chance to give me a lap dance. I’ve got my own chair here and everything.

House. There’s inappropriate, and then there’s soliciting sexual activity in front of children.

What children? The teenager over there with his iPod earbuds so deeply implanted they’ll have to be surgically removed? You’re jealous because I’ve had two hot babes after me today and you’ve had none.

You thought the last person flirting with you was a guy.

Eh. The Todd appreciates hot regardless of gender.

Even better. But, “hot babe”? While I have a great personality and sense of humor, “hot babe” is probably a stretch. Let’s be realistic.

No way! Being realistic ruins flirting. Even my friend Stuffy McStufferstein here knows: honesty has no place in the courtship ritual.

That is wrong on so many levels that we’d need higher order mathematics to count them all.

Nerd.

And how many years of calculus did you take?

Beside the point.

You’re funny.

Why, thank you.

Not you. Cutie with the sweet ride.

I’m getting that lap dance, aren’t I?

No.

You are such a stick in the mud.

With a stick up your –

Yes, yes, I am every single stick-related metaphor anyone can come up with. This is also a public venue, an elementary school no less, and nobody is having any type of carnal relations while I have anything to say about it.

Why his first wife divorced him.

First wife?

He’s had three.

Sorry, I said that wrong. First wife?

Heh.

Hee, hee.

Laugh it up all you want, but now it’s time to say bye-bye.

You’re an ass.

Learned it all from him. Bye-bye.

You sure are bitchy when you’re defending your turf.

What? Shut up, and move up. Look at all that space in front of you.

Hey, look; Earbud Kid again. And he’s with his mom.

Now do you see why it’s smart to do this early? Don’t roll your eyes at me, young man.

They can be a handful, can’t they?

Are you here with your son?

Sort of.

Hey! Some respect for the man in the wheelchair!

And what have you done lately to earn respect?

Exactly! Fortunately, the lesson seems to be sinking in with my son.

I’m still working on it with this one.

Fuck you!

You see?

Good luck!

You are an ass.

As I told No-Lap-Dance-Girl, I never was one until I met you. Funny how that goes.

Bullshit. You were always an ass. You just didn’t have the courage to let it out until you met me.

Uh huh.

Your capacity for denial –

Excuse me.

Yes?

Have you voted before?

Yes. Quite a few times.

Poli-wonk!

Thank you, House.

I’m sorry, but it’s just so awesome! That we get to do this; that we get to pick our leaders.

So, this is your first time? That’s wonderful.

Jimmy loves the virgins.

House.

I’ve voted in local elections, but this is my first time for a Presidential election. It’s so... exciting. There’s such a clear choice between the candidates, you know?

I know.

I gag.

House.

Quit trolling for a date to prom, and let’s get a move on.

Oh, the line’s moving. Good luck!

What the hell does she need luck for?

It’s just a phrase.

It’s just stupid.

Fine. You want the truth? I meant, “Good luck not having your natural, healthy enthusiasm squashed into oblivion by a bastard like the one I’m unfortunately chained to.”

You wound me.

Every chance I get.

Fine. I’m out of here.

Wait. No, wait, House. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, OK? Stay. This is important. That woman was right; there’s a clear choice between the candidates, and it’s crucial that we pick the one that’s going to set the country on the right path.

You’re assuming there is a right path.

Of course there’s a right path.

There are a lot of different routes you can take in Yankee Stadium. Some go past the popcorn stand; some go past the skyboxes.

Yeah?

But all of them eventually lead to an exit.

Very zen. But not relevant to this election.

It’s very relevant. Ask Painter Lady over there

Who?

The woman with the paint-splattered shirt and pants. Duh.

Um, ask her what?

Hey! Painter Lady!

Me? Yes?

Is there one right way to paint a house?

I paint pictures. Still-lifes, landscapes, found art.

Do you have tremors, or are you just the world’s sloppiest painter?

What?

Your clothes.

Oh. I do murals, too.

Fine. Is there one right way to paint a mural?

There are a lot of wrong ways to paint one.

But is there one and only one right way?

No.

See?

See what? You’ve proven that art is creative, not that voting is meaningless. Thank you, ma’am.

Heh.

Now what?

She gave you the evil eye before she moved up.

She did not give me the evil eye.

Yes, she did. It’s right... there.

Great. You’re making fun of my eyes now?

Just the left one. Extra wander-y today. Probably why you’re not scoring with the chicks.

I do not have strabismus.

Yes, you do.

I do not.

Yes, you do. And before this turns into a Bugs Bunny cartoon, answer this: Who looks into your eyes more, you or me?

You look into my eyes?

We’ve established I don’t have autism; eye contact’s not a problem for me. You have intermittent strabismus, a couple of times a day, more when you’re stressed. Or should I say, more stressed than normal.

You gaze into my eyes? Does it make your heart go pitter-patter? Oh, Gregory!

Deflecting. Cute. Get glasses, you dumbass.

I don’t need glasses.

You do if you want to keep doing surgery. The incidence of your eye turns has increased over the past couple of years, and it’s going to start affecting your vision if you don’t correct it.

That’s rich, coming from a guy who doesn’t wear his reading glasses during surgical procedures.

It’s a different field of vision.

Yeah, there’s no need to see detail when you’re wielding a scalpel on internal organs.

You – Ow! Hey, watch it with that bag. You may not need your head for thinking, but I need mine.

I’m sorry.

You’re beyond sorry.

House.

You didn’t get hit with that damn backpack. She’s got the corpse of Hoffa in there.

Who?

Who? What do you mean, ‘who’? Hoffa. Jimmy Hoffa. Famous labor organizer who went missing, presumed dead, body never found.

I never heard of him. Did this happen recently?

Yes! 1975.

Oh. My mom was ten that year.

Wilson, when did fetuses get the right to vote?

Bush’s second term. But she’s not young; you’re just old.

Having a grasp of the basics of contemporary American history does not make me old.

No, qualifying for AARP makes you old. Quit glaring at me; I didn’t invent time. I’m not even the one who’s named after the calendar.

Excuse me.

What, Ianto Jones?

Who?

Ianto Jones. Second fiddle and butt-buddy to Jack on Torchwood.

Jack? Do you mean Jake? Jake wasn’t gay; he and Nina –

Not Everwood, Torchwood. The adventures of a team of bisexual time-traveling space pirates.

They’re not pirates.

Butt-pirates.

What’s your obsession with butts?

What isn’t my obsession with butts? Butts are awesome. Round and easy to grab and awesome.

And they’re not in space. They investigate extraterrestrial incidents that happen on Earth.

What makes you think I care?

They do have cute butts. Anyway, do you know if there’s a restroom nearby?

I’m betting it’s over there where the big sign that says “Restrooms” is.

Will you hold my place in line?

I don’t even know where your place in line is.

I’ve been standing behind you for forty-five minutes.

No, that’s Wallflower, the girl with the weird nervous grin, who hates Cheney. Wait. Where’d she go?

Yes, we’ll hold your place. No problem.

Wallflower was there; then I turn around again and it’s Ianto-clone. That’s weird.

It’s not weird.

It’s weird.

It’s not weird.

What are you, four today? You have to cut down everything I say? It’s weird. Weird like Indeterminate Gender Person there.

Yes?

Yes?

I meant Skirt Boy, but I guess No-on-Props-New-Jersey-Doesn’t Have is fairly indeterminate as well.

I live in California, which does have Props 4 and 8. I’m here seeing my loving but civically oblivious family who always seem to plan these gatherings to happen during important sociopolitical events.

More than I needed to know. Anything you want to add, Skirt Boy?

Me?

Since we appear to be giving out life stories.

I just want to vote.

And you’re wearing the tie because?

You don’t want to ask why I’m wearing the skirt?

I know why you’re wearing the skirt. To strike a blow against conformity and freak out the squares. I gotta tell you, though, my friend here is the squarest of the square.

Hey!

You order double starch in your shirts, and you liked it when Bonnie ironed your underwear.

It made ‘em smooth.

Not proving me wrong. My point is, Skirt Boy, if you’re not freaking out Wilson with the skirt, you’re not freaking out anyone. Which brings me back to my original question: why the tie?

To freak you out.

I’m not freaked out. I’m a little concerned for your sanity, but I’m not freaked out.

Your friend’s wearing a tie.

I’m concerned for his sanity, too.

House.

You know it’s true.

Unfortunately, yes. Look, we’re almost there.

A through H? Anybody with the last name A through H?

Why? Do I get a prize?

A through H line is empty. You can step up to the table.

Hello? Wheelchair! No stepping!

I didn’t realize you were in a wheelchair. Why didn’t you ask for assistance when you arrived?

I don’t need assistance; I’ve got my helper monkey right here.

Thanks, House.

You’re welcome, Bobo.

Sir, you would’ve been eligible to come to the front of the line.

I would? Wilson, you ass, you never said.

One, I didn’t know. Two, you didn’t want to be in the chair anyway. Three...

Three?

I didn’t want to wait in line by myself.

Wuss. Have fun waiting for the M through Z table.

It’s S through Z.

I don’t care. Where the hell’s the H table?

Right there, sir.

Picture ID, please.

I don’t want to.

You don’t... want to?

Nope. Camera captures your soul.

OK, fine. Then I need proof of residency with the address and name matching your voter registration. For example, bank statement, car registration, government check or document, rent receipt, utility bill, or any other official document.

What if I’m not registered?

New Jersey law requires you to be registered 21 days prior to election, sir.

Voter suppression!

I’m not suppressing you. Registration is required of all citizens before voting, sir.

Oh, I have to be a citizen?

Yes.

Of this country?

Yes, you idiot! Of this country!

Heh. House, Gregory. 221B Baker Street. Here’s my driver’s license.

You provoked me on purpose?

Of course. You’d think a woman wearing a “Harvey Dent for DA” shirt would have a better sense of humor. Hey, little chicky, what are you doing back there?

I’m an Elections Inspector, ensuring the rules are followed and everyone who is registered gets their chance to vote.

Big job for a ten-year-old.

I’m above voting age, sir.

Yeah, I’m just giving you shit because you’re cute.

Thank you, sir.

Here’s your ID. That table next.

See ya, Dent.

Your access code for the voting machine. Do you need assistance in the booth?

What kind of assistance? Happy ending come with that?

I’m here to help, sir, not to listen to your lip.

A sad ending, then?

I have my happy ending waiting at home, sir. Do you need assistance with the voting machine?

Nah. You glad a brother’s on the ticket?

Excuse me?

Are you glad a brother’s on the ticket?

We’re not allowed to express our opinions on the candidates while we’re working.

When you’re not working?

It’s a fact, not an opinion, that informed, intelligent candidates with integrity who can represent the entire nation are a boon to our democracy.

Fight the power!

Better to be the power, sir. That’s your booth.

...

House!

What?

You were in there a long time; I was getting worried.

Well, when you’ve gotta do number two as well as number one...

It’s a voting booth, not a restroom stall. Oh God, don’t tell me you defecated in the voting booth.

You have so little faith in me.

I have a lot of faith in you. And a long history of that faith getting bruised.

You love it.

Let’s go.

Don’t forget your sticker!

Are we suddenly at a pediatrician’s office?

It’s an ‘I voted’ sticker to show your patriotic pride!

Do you have a ‘I’d rather have been sleeping’ sticker?

No, but that’s a good idea for next time. I’ll let the volunteer organizers know. I can picture how the layout would be; it’d take me only two minutes to whip up. It’d be awesome! Thanks!

It was a joke.

Doesn’t mean it’s not a good idea.

What pills are you on? Can I have some?

Let’s go, House.

Here, let me put your sticker on, sir. You get a free coffee from Starbucks if you’re wearing it today!

I get a free Starbucks coffee every day.

It’d be nice if we let Starbucks pay for it today, rather than me, though.

What’s the fun in that?

Ooof.

Watch it!

Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!

Don’t worry; it’s OK.

No, it’s not! That’s his paying arm... even more important, his prescribing arm.

Never mind my pain as long as you get your drugs.

Now you’ve got the idea.

Are you OK? I’m really sorry. I was rushing because I’ve already been to the wrong place, and stood in line there, and now I’m finally at the right place and there’s another line and I think I’m going to be late to work –

Stop before he offers to marry you. The line’s a lot shorter than when we got here – you are so going to pay for making me get up early, Wilson – and you’ll probably be done in half an hour or less.

Oh. Good. Thanks; I feel better. Hope your arm’s OK.

It’s fine. House, what was that?

What was what?

You, being... helpful. I might even be so bold as to say: nice.

Nice? That was not nice. That was me getting rid of her to avoid the tedium of her tripping over herself explaining and apologizing and being all needy, and you listening and comforting and then asking me to be Best Man again.

That was nice.

It was not.

It was nice.

It was not!

This isn’t going to get violent, is it? I don’t like witnessing violence.

Get lost! And take Snapshot-Taking Girl and her Aryan Nation boyfriend with you.

I don’t think he’s Aryan Nation; I think he’s actually German. And she seems to be French.

Ooh, lucky him! The French love rolling over for the Germans.

All right, my ‘listening to bigotry’ meter has hit overload, so let’s go.

Hi. Sorry to bother you. Do you mind if I ask you how you voted?

Yes.

OK. Did you vote for –

You’re a journalist, and you can’t even parse your own sentence? Yes, I mind if you ask me who I voted for.

Oh. That’s fine. Do you mind if I ask who you voted for?

I prefer to keep that information private.

He always votes for the candidate who managed to bag the hottest wife.

I do not.

Then how do you explain your interest in Fred Thompson during the primaries?

He had interesting ideas.

Do you actually agree with any of them?

Um, uh... campaign finance reform.

Yeah. So since Horndog here isn’t going to say, I’ll tell you who I voted for.

I thought you said you wouldn’t.

No, I didn’t. I said you couldn’t parse your own sentence, and that I minded you asking me. Based on your listening skills, I’m really starting to lose my faith in the power of press.

Starting to?

Point taken. Anyway, Journalist Person, get out your pen and paper and dote upon my wisdom: I did a write-in vote.

Mickey Mouse?

James Evan Wilson of Princeton, New Jersey.

Me? You wrote in me?

Mm-hm.

Why?

I’ve always wanted to be First Lady.

I KNEW they were a couple.

You and everyone else, hon.