A bit of good news here at Camp White: Wolf has returned to us! His battle with Ann Coulter on the Terrace at the Four Seasons Saginaw left him seriously injured and he has spent the past several weeks in the care of the talented Dr. Khan, who nursed him back to health. While he is a man of few words, Wolf has not said anything at all since returning to duty yesterday. I tried to thank him for coming to my aid, but he merely nodded and hurried to change into his work clothes. Outwardly, he seemed healthy enough, save a single injury: his right hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away. He noticed me looking at it, and quickly stuffed it into the pocket of his coat before hurrying off to his rounds.

Later, I paid a visit to Dr. Khan to receive one my StumpStrong injections, and took the opportunity to find out a few details about Wolf’s adventure. It seems that the battle was a harrowing one. Wolf had not given him many of the details, but apparently the wound to his hand had been life-threatening. What appeared at first to be a simple but extensive burn turned out to be something much more sinister. In fact, Khan had to use some of his strongest and most arcane cures to prevent the condition from spreading up his arm and consuming his entire body. This new information made clear to me the depth of Wolf’s bravery and devotion to this campaign. I sought him out to convey my respect and gratitude.

I caught up with Wolf on the balloon pad, where he was triple-checking the lines. At first he seemed hesitant to speak, but when I explained the full reach of my gratitude, he broke down and roared repeatedly, then began making punching motions with his fists (this, I am told, is how Germans cry). When he regained his composure, he gave me all of the thrilling details of his story:

It seems that shortly after I made my escape in the balloon, one of Ann Coulter’s energy blasts caught Wolf square in the chest, knocking him onto his back. She stood over him, eyes aflame, mouth aleak with pus, and conjured lightening in her fingertips with the intent of finishing him. Wolf, merely pretending to be unconscious, suddenly sprang up and knocked Coulter off balance, her attack sending sparks uselessly into the sky. He thrust his powerful shoulders forward, knocking her up and over the terrace railing, and with a shriek she began to fall. In a fit of humanity, Wolf caught her hand and stopped her fall. To his surprise, glee, not fear, filled her eyes, and the large snake-emblazoned ring on her left hand came suddenly alight with a searing green flame. Wolf cried out and, unable to hold on any longer, dropped the grinning Coulter onto the pavement below. Had it not been for Dr. Khan’s timely action when he returned to Headquarters, desperately injured, he might not have lived to tell the tale.

The marvelous heroism of this tale inspired me to give Wolf a generous raise, which he grudgingly accepted. Unfortunately, Dr. Khan says that Wolf’s hand may never fully recover. Apparently, though, Wolf was not ruffled by this news. In his words, “a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable exchange for a world without Ann Coulter.” Amen, brave Hun.

Corporate money is a big part of the modern Presidential Campaign. Without the infusion of millions of special-interest dollars, it is virtually impossible to gain office in America. In a recent discussion, Anselmo and I decided that I should be more aggressive in trying to gain corporate sponsorship. I could have sworn that my loyalty to the Buick brand would have brought me a small taste of GM’s endless success, but it hasn’t happened yet. Anselmo suggested that I try and court a source that has a greater stake in today’s political climate. We discussed several options, including the oil, chemical, and abortion industries, but none seemed to be a good fit. Finally, though, we settled on society’s favorite pitiful old punching-bag, Big Tobacco.

Up until a week ago, I had never had a cigarette, so I was a bit nervous when I went to the tobacco store. Boy, there were so many brands that I was really intimidated. I bought a carton of each, shut myself up in my man-cave, and smoked myself silly. There were a few intriguing options, but in the end, the choice was clear: Chesterfield. I now join the long and prestigious list of formerly living people who have touted this mellow smoke, a roster that includes James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, Rod Serling, Leona Helmsley, and others. As they would tell you (were their dead, blackened throats not clogged with maggots), chief among this brand’s strengths are it’s stoutness of flavor, mildness of aroma, and filterlessness of tip.

I was blown away by the merits of this brand. For example, I find sexual intercourse more pleasurable before a Chesterfield. Peggy is not immune to the effects either; her orgasms are more robust and flavorful when I smoke one of these mild gems just after making whoopee. Speaking of flavor, these things are full of it. Sometimes, I’ll suck a fag all night and still feel unfulfilled. Not so with a “Chesty.” These stout butts always leave me satisfied. Also, Chesterfields leave my breath smelling moderately less like a dead homeless man’s anus than the other brands. Peggy must notice it too, since she vomits somewhat less frequently when we get intimate. I credit that special blend of premium Carolina tobaccos for those blessings; a blend whose smoke also gives my nails a classic tinge of well-aged bronze, and my face the toughness and durability of the finest Cordovan leather boots.

Chesterfields are also the most virile cigarette available. As a real man, I appreciate that the fine craftsmen who put together these beauts don’t futz around with no filters. To me, filters are like condoms: they ruin the sensation, they spoil the mood, and I usually pull them off when no one’s looking.

I’ve only smoked them for a week, but it already feels like it’s been decades. I’ve even developed a great booming cough as a testament to my increased strength and manliness. It’s a cough that says “you better not mess with me fella, I’m a Chesterfield man.” I’ve also been producing a fair amount of a rich, dark, phlegm. This isn’t your ordinary phlegm, though, like the kind you might find around the house. Like the discriminating man who chooses Chesterfield, this phlegm refuses to be ignored. Within a few weeks (if I’m lucky), I hope to be hacking up loads of the stuff. And from what I hear, I have plenty else to look forward to as well: the mild heartiness of a Chesterfield tumor is unmatched.

Whenever I discover a product that delivers this much satisfaction, I always feel like I owe the manufacturer something special; something over and above the purchase price. For example, I once bought some Chicken McNuggets at a restaurant whose name I won’t mention. They were so good, that I went to congratulate the manager. He seemed pretty bummed because the local government was trying to shut him down due to his flagrant and repeated health code violations. Because I liked his product, though, I paid the health inspector $240,000 to look the other way in the future. This is the type of loyalty I bring to the table. In this case, I would like to invite the Altria group to my headquarters, where we can talk about how much I love Chesterfields. Then, we can discuss possible ways in which I could be of service to them.

Hopefully they take me up on my offer; I’ll keep you all posted. In the meantime, smoke on folks!

I’ve been at this for nine months now, and I have to say: it’s exhausting. An election is a grueling two-year string of the most brutal days imaginable, each packed solid with balloon rides, all-you-can-eat buffets, and handshakes. Being a sociopath, I’ve been able to weather the worst of the emotional damage. Physically, however, I’ve begun to show signs of wear. The problem is that sometimes I just feel a bit too fatigued to give as much as I ought to. A few weeks back, at the pancake breakfast, Anselmo looked concerned. He tousled my hair and gazed into my face, his eyes forlorn. He suggested that I get a little rest, and I nearly slapped him. “Rest is for the unemployed,” I thundered, “One does not win elections by resting.” He continued to plead with me, and at last we agreed that he would call in a doctor to examine me and make suggestions about how to stay healthy during this stressful period.

Unfortunately, Anselmo brought in some quack who thought he could make me better with diet plans and meditation. Where I come from doctors give medicine, so I dismissed this dude and found a doctor who shared that philosophy. His name is Khan, and he is a freaking genius. He’s been so helpful that I hired him full-time to accompany me. He is from Spain, where he gives medical advice to many top politicians. Due to legal troubles at home, he recently moved to the States and set up a small sports-medicine practice. I found him on the internet and told him to come by. Anselmo seemed skeptical, and hovered silently in the background throughout our entire meeting.

The physical was an real wake-up call. I had no idea that this whole endeavor was taking such an awful toll on my body. I was lacking pep, that much was absolutely clear. Also, my strength and endurance were atrocious, and my BMI was straight bullshit. I was a bit crestfallen, I have to say. But Dr. Khan said not to worry about it. He said that the modern American Presidential Campaign is, physically speaking, equivalent to winning the Tour de France while hitting 73 home runs. That really put things in perspective for me, since I’ve never done either of those things before. How, then, could I be expected to sustain that pace for another year? According to Khan, the answer is simple: training.

Here are a few things you may not know. Barack Obama typically stays up for 70 hours at a time and gives nearly three speeches an hour. Mike Huckabee has such a well-developed handshake that he can completely crush a constituents hand, reducing the bones to a fine ashlike dust. During September of this year, Hillary Clinton benchmarked a sustained flip-flop frequency of 12 times per second. They don’t get those kind of results with a few bananas and some soy protein; these candidates all observe highly rigorous training regimens.

It just so happens that Khan is a practitioner of this type of training. His program is called StumpStrong^TM, and it’s really quite simple: just a few dozen intramuscular injections each morning, followed up in the afternoon by a blood transfusion or two. In addition, I will be subject to twice-weekly “boosters” of a supplement cocktail, administered anally. Other than that, Khan says that if I just observe a balanced exercise schedule, I should notice a marked improvement in just a few weeks. If after an initial trial period I am unhappy with the results, we can look into some of the more involved procedures, such as gene therapy or having a second heart installed. Dr. Khan has done several of these “dualies,” and says they work out quite well.

I guess like everything else in this crazy world, campaigning for office has changed a lot. Back in the day, a couple of lines of blow off of a hooker’s ass was enough to give a Candidate “the edge.” Now, we start campaigning right after the Inauguration and have to have doctors on retainer just to compete. At any rate, I think things might be finally looking up!