The allegory of the armadillo.
I imagine an empty desert road sometime well after midnight under a sky with no moon. I imagine a driver alone behind the wheel of a speeding car. I imagine an armadillo appearing out of nowhere in the path of the vehicle.
I consider the vast majority of politicians to be the sort of person who hit the armadillo and keep driving. I consider a rare few to be the sort who stop the car to calm their nerves and emotions, and maybe one in a thousand is the sort of person who would actually look back to see what they’ve done and if it was possible to save the creature.
I consider that the vast majority of politicians would never share this experience, either out of embarrassment or guilt, with anybody save a close and trusted confidant.
I imagine replacing the armadillo with a human being.
I consider the vast majority of politicians to be the sort of person who would turn themselves in and face the consequences. I consider a rare few to be the sort who would keep driving and never say a word about it, and maybe one in a thousand is the sort who would stop the car and make a clumsy, desperate attempt to hide the body.
When I review the campaign and history of the Republican nominee for president, I see somebody who would steer towards the armadillo in order to log the experience of killing it, then joyously relate the anecdote of the time he’d killed an armadillo over cocktails. I see somebody who would, if the armadillo was a human being, insist that it was an armadillo, and that it had no business being on the road at that hour anyway, and you can’t prove there ever was a road, a car, or an armadillo.
Creative Control 