Ununskewing the Polls

Well, it’s been a hell of a week. Like everyone else in the country, the Caddywhompus staff watched in rapture as the results came in Tuesday night.

ABC, 10:12 PM – “Surprising news coming in from Michigan now, it looks too close to call. This was supposed to be a solid Clinton state. Let’s throw it over to our polling expert, Nate Silver. Nate, what are we seeing here?”

Nate, “So far we’re seeing about a 2% error in the polls, and no doubt, Hillary Clinton is in serious trouble in the electoral college.”

Despair sets in. Most of us fear the return of a 5-4 conservative court, trade wars with our largest trading partner, summary execution of journalists, Rudy Gulianni in any position of power, cats and dogs living together; mass hysteria.

Our mail room guy, Biff, on the other hand, is kicking himself for telling Chris Christie to fuck himself when he took the last hotdog in line at a Country Buffett a month ago. “I was in line for a cabinet position for sure,” he said. “Department of the Interior maybe, who knows?”

“Department of taking it up the Interior, maybe,” our CIO, Dave, chimes in.

Around midnight, something in the coverage catches our attention in a big way. Er’… a bigly way.

NBC, 12:03 AM – “Again, Trump is consistently overperforming his poll numbers. We’re seeing a consistent error in the polls, especially in swing states. This is particularly surprising given the numbers we were seeing out of Knudson Polling, Inc. over the past few months.”

“What the fuck did he just say?!” Dave screeches.

The CIO immediately runs to our server room to check the DNS server address for KnudsonPollingINC.com. Sure enough, it’s registered to our company address.

We run, panicked, to Knudson’s office. Locked. We kick in the door.

The window is open, drapes waving in a soft breeze, walls covered with spreadsheet print outs, red lines in lipstick running from one sheet to another, steak knives plunged into the walls at odd intervals, the words “ununskewing the polls” written over and over again on every visible surface, and, in the corner, a tall rack of servers blinking at us to the beat of a nation’s broken heart.

The Interns

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