The pundits were right again. 

Oh, I mean. What a minute.  Well, whatever.  Pundits are the meteorologists of the political media, aren't they?  They get it right, plus or minus 15 percentage points, about a third of the time.

Still, despite squeaking past Obama in New Hampshire, Madam Clinton is eating his dust, so to speak, in the War of  Metaphors. 

While Obama, "The Democrat's Demosthenes," is "a combination of John F. Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, and Abraham Lincoln,"  Hillary is Muskie, Nixon, and Hubert Humphrey rolled into one.  On a good day.  She didn't help her own cause by comparing herself to LBJ, either, in her closing arguments to voters in  New Hampshire. (But my favorite unfavorable comparison of Hillary is to her husband, Bill, but "without the charm.")

Obama, " the lightning catcher," soars, alighting "on a crest above the vast expanse of the national electorate." Clinton, cringing in the slime below, is "strange, shrunken," she " wriggles," "whines," and occasionally lets out that ungodly "cackle."

In other words, it's basically Aslan versus Gollum for the Democratic nomination.

It's no wonder the woman responsible for making Madam Clinton mist up apparently abandoned her in the end, for Obama. As ABC reported:

Marianne Pernold Young, 64, a freelance photographer from Portsmouth, N.H., told ABC News that while she was moved by Clinton's emotional moment, she was turned off by how quickly the New York senator regained her "political posture."

"I went to see Hillary. I was undecided and I was moved by her response to me," Pernold Young said in a telephone interview with ABC News. "We saw 10 seconds of Hillary, the caring woman."

"But then when she turned away from me, I noticed that she stiffened up and took on that political posture again," she said. "And the woman that I noticed for 10 seconds was gone."

Apparently, Clinton was supposed to be an emotional wreck, weeping, wailing, and rending her garments when Pernold asked her, "who does your hair?"

What would it take, Marianne? Fifteen seconds of actual, confirmed tearing up?  An actual tear you could take home in a crystal vial suitable for display on your mantel?  But don't you know she'll melt if she gets wet? How about a cum-stained dress instead?  No, seriously.  What do you want? Tell her! She'll do it!

Meanwhile, the fact that she nearly shed a tear is almost as repellent to pundits as the fact that she didn't quite.

And on we slither to Michigan.