Sarah Palin once said, “polls are for strippers and cross country skiers.” Well, I don’t ski, and my stripping days are a distant memory of glitter bombs and champagne promises. But I believe in polls, especially when the pollsters have the good sense to call me.
One of those smart pollsters called just after dinner the other night. He said is name was Sal. I didn’t catch the name of the polling firm.
“Do you have time for a quick poll?”
I looked at the kitchen sink. I had a lot of dishes to do, then I had to answer some emails, and I was hoping to watch two episodes of Bosch Legacy before bed. This would have to be a quick poll. A very quick poll.
“How long is this going to take?” I asked.
“Three minutes, tops.”
Three minutes? I should’ve known better. Come to think of it, I did know better. I’m not trying to brag, but I’ve been polled by Gallup, the gold-standard of polling outfits. When you say yes to a poll, you say goodbye to the next thirty minutes of your life.
“It’ll be fast and pai…
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