heh..heh...Rather better not mess with Texas.
Now, just hold your alpacas, you young whipper snapper. A presidential race is like a sweet young lass from County Kildare. We aren't a' callin' it until she's as ripe as a Kansas nectarine. And far as I can tell, this thing is as tight as a too tight pair of Levi's jeans clinging to the buttocks of a construction worker who's put too much sugar on his provolone. So hold up for a minute. You need chill out like a glatt kosher pickle about to be ingested by an obese Satmar in the middle of Williamsburg, who...
(More seemingly incoherent rambling from a senile anchorman tossing off elaborately constructed similes that make absolutely no sense whatsoever.)