Some of the great eternal questions are, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”; “If a tree falls in a forest, and no one hears it, does it make a sound?”; “Is the Pope Catholic?”; “Do these pants make my butt look big?”; “Who drank all the orange juice then put the empty carton back in the refrigerator again?” Now we can add, “What kind of flippo-unit is still undecided in the 2016 presidential contest?

I can understand if undecided voters consisted of a couple of hermits, or people recently emerged from comas, or unlucky spelunkers who spent the last 18 months in a mine-shaft, cave-in. But what’s that, eleven people? Maybe twelve, tops? Enough to field a starting offense that could beat the Niners, sure, but that’s about it.

Some experts claimed 11 percent of America had yet to make up their minds the weekend before the election, approximately the same amount who believe Elvis is still alive and playing liar’s dice with Santa’s Elves. Elvis and the Elves, a children’s book waiting to be written.

Who are these so-called “Undecideds” we keep hearing about? Do they actually exist? Or are they fictional characters created out of whole cloth by pollsters eager to keep the checks rolling in until Election Day? Or passive-aggressive, warm-blooded carbon based life forms with basic trust issues?

What the hell is the problem with these people? Is it faulty information or a lack of information or too much information: paralysis by analysis? Sounds more like a cry for a urinalysis and/or psychoanalysis.

Who could not know which candidate they’re going to vote for president? Unless bewilderment is their natural state. Maybe they’re also confused about which receptacle to use in the bathroom. Need Post-It notes to remind them that its socks first, then shoes. Struggle with the intricate manipulation required to use those new fangled-toothbrushes.

Really? No idea. Now. In November. They must be waiting for snow. To be awakened by a bright light piercing their bedroom ceiling and a booming voice advisingthem to vote for the Big Orange Guy. A flock of pelicans to form the word “Clinton” on a migratory flight south to Mexico. For the Donald to grow bigger hands. Hillary to grow… a Y chromosome.

What’s the plan man; will they flip a coin? Vote for the person whose ad they see last? Throw the I-Ching? Sacrifice a virgin goat outside the polling place? Eenie-meenie-miney-mo? Go into the booth with their smart phone and check out the electoral preferences of their favorite boy band on Snapchat?

Obviously, the race comes down to who is less hated. She’s the only Democrat who could possibly lose to him and he’s the only Republican who could possibly lose to her. We’re in the middle of the worst O’Henry story ever written. If it qualified for the ballot, None of the Above would win in a landslide.

Anybody who can’t figure out who they’re voting for by now should really sit this one out or bide their time until the ghost of Uncle Ron or Calvin Coolidge or Alexander Hamilton telepathically nudges them. The wait could stretch for years and all in all, you know what, that might not be such a bad thing.

Will Durst is an award-winning, nationally acclaimed columnist, comedian and former line worker at Sony in San Diego.