It was an olive branch, or so it seemed.  Young warriors locked in a battle for supremacy; we sat feverishly forming our weaponry out of snow.  Then high from the battlements of the ice castle came a call for civility and fairness from the evil tyrant we wished to depose.  Well actually, the evil tyrant was my pain-in-the-butt kid brother and the high battlements were the walls to their snow-fort built on top of the mound of snow pushed up by the plow in the parking lot of a neighboring tech college.  Things seem much bigger to you when you barely top four feet yourself.

We were surprised, to say the least, by my brother’s call for moderation on the eve of the impending carnage.  As we halted our production of lethal projectiles, or snowballs, my brother, a.k.a., The Despot, gave his terms of war to the throngs below, who laid siege to his fortress, well, okay, myself and a couple of friends.  The normally vicious and inhumane despot, a.k.a my brother, now gave a perplexing call for honor.

No more ice-balls.  The despot decried their use and cited many convincing reasons.  They really, really hurt when they hit you and Mom and Dad said they are too dangerous.  On the subject of Mom and Dad, they had specifically said, “No, Ice-balls!”  Also the despot reminded us that our little sister was watching.  If she caught us throwing anything illegal, she would inform on us.  Then we would face the judgment of Dad, which at that age seemed worse than the hand of God Almighty.  And, besides, ice-balls really, really hurt. We should do the right thing and just not make anymore.

Unfortunately for me, I had just received the umpteenth lecture on being the older brother and providing an example to my younger siblings.  So, in an effort to be mature and good examplish (today, that’s a word) I seconded the motion and we all agreed, “No more ice-balls”.  So back to snowball making we went and then prepared to charge. With a cry and a hue that would have made Joshua Chamberlain proud, we charged the despot’s castle….straight into a hale of well-aimed, well-packed and extremely painful ice-balls.  We beat a hasty retreat holding our head, back and unmentionables, roaring in pain.  As the despot cackled in glee, we shouted back that we had all agreed not to make ice-balls.  He chortled back that they hadn’t made any more; those were already there from the last battle.

Angus King, in an effort to look diplomatic and to shame his opponents into following his “example”, has sent out a call for moderation in this campaign. He has asked that the campaigns not take any more donations from SuperPacs.  He has decried them as a detriment to the political process and called on his opponents to shun their influence.  What he has not told his opponents is that quietly behind the battlements of his campaign, with his lucrative friends and supporters, he has built up his own “stash” of SuperPacs.

My father often admonished me as a boy that, “A word to the wise is sufficient.”  Well here is my word to the wise and hopefully it is sufficient.  If Governor King’s opponents are foolish enough to believe his “SuperPac diplomacy”, they will find themselves running straight into a hale of ice-balls this November, to the cackling delight of one very fiendish King.