Fly

 Never mind all the discussion of politics. There was a fly on Mike Pence's head. 

The discussion of this insect and its appearance on the Vice President's forehead during Wednesday's debate overwhelmed any and all other topics. It wasn't on the wall. It was on his head. My mind slipped easily to all the easy jokes about on what flies tend to land. The twittersphere joined me, as they often do for such low-hanging fruit. Or poop. 

Then I was reminded of the end of Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, after Norman Bates has been apprehended and his mind has gone to another place, leaving his mother to pull the strings from inside. A fly  buzzes around Norman/Mother's head, we hear her voice: "They know I can't move a finger and I want to just sit here and be quiet just in case they suspect me. They're probably watching me. Well, let them. Let them see what kind of a person I am. I'm not even going to swat that fly. I hope they are watching... they'll see. They'll see and they'll know, and they'll say, "Why, she wouldn't even harm a fly..."

And it was at that moment that I was reminded that eight months ago, Mike Pence was put in charge of our nations' Coronavirus Task Force. And this debate was taking place with the participants separated by two eight foot tall sheets of plexiglass. And do you suppose that a fly would be incapable of making it over such a daunting obstacle? There were no flies on Senator Harris.

So here I am, driving the narrative that suggests that the only important story in the Vice Presidential Debate was the fly. This might be because moderator Susan Page ran a tighter ship than Chris Wallace, or that VP candidates are more subdued by their general nature. Maybe it was the plexiglass shields. Or the fact that they were seated. Or that once the "president" contracted the virus his running mate was sworn to protects us all from, the debate was over. 

I don't know how many people Norman Bates killed, or how many deaths in which he was complicit. I do know that Mike Pence and his boss have a running total that stands somewhere north of two hundred ten thousand. And climbing. 

You know what else flies like to climb on? 

Death things.