A week today I shall be in downtown Manhattan debating some lefty hippie type on the state of the primaries after Super Tuesday. This being Manhattan, the place will no doubt be full of similar l. h. t.’s, all pouting and shrieking the way they do.

One of two things happens at these events: (a) They allow my voice to be heard, with the result that the forces of darkness are routed in gibbering confusion by the power of my eloquence and the force of my logic. Or (b) They just keep shouting me down while I sit there getting discreetly drunk till I fall off the stage. The hip flask is prepared.