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!

When a man decides to run for office, there is a question he must ask himself before all others. A question more important than choosing which friends to hire when he wins; more basic than determining which of his principles he will compromise first. It is a question, the answer to which will forever determine the scope and reach of his political career. I am speaking, of course, of tie color. Perhaps it seems like a straightforward or even insignificant decision. You might think that decisions on platform or strategies for image management must trump seemingly irrelevant factors like tie color. That is why you will never be president.

Structuralist critic Roland Barthes called the tie “The dangling member of the political beast.” Member indeed. It has been with us since the beginning of time, and will be with us forever more. Some are long and skinny. Others think that it is the girth that counts. Any way you slice it there are choices to be made. Color? Simple: red or blue. But Rich, don’t they make other color ties? Only chumps and wannabes wear those other colors. Blue or Red, case closed. Actually, that’s really the only choice to make All of the other variables are dictated by other things. Tie material? Silk. Tie knot? Depends on your collar. But nonetheless, the color decision is what we’re discussing here.

Let’s look at how some great men other than myself have used ties to their advantage, and how some hopeless losers chose more poorly. For instance, it is common knowledge that Ronald Reagan always wore a red tie, but did you know that Jimmy Carter wore a red tie too? This illustrates the complexity of the problem, since the very tie color that propelled Reagan to such dizzying heights was also the source of the catastrophically colossal failure that was Carter’s career and life. What’s that you say? Carter got the peace prize? I think we all know that prize really just means you’re a pansy.

So you say, what about Roosevelt, Rich? He was a bad-ass President, what color tie did he wear? Trick question, bucko; his tie was gray. That used to be the only choice.

Another interesting tidbit: Gerald Ford ran for county commissioner six times wearing red ties. He only became President only because Nixon got assassinated. He never could have won anything with that red tie.

There are also cautionary tales, of course. Some folks don’t pay attention to the rules, and think they could do something crazy and wear some other kind of tie. Anyone remember the Lesko Administration? Trust me, you’re better off.

You might think that my beliefs about the power of the tie are a bit sexist. How, you might be wondering, does a woman display her prowess when in competition for a political office. Two words: pearl necklace.

But if you’re talking blue ties, you’re talking Bush country. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Even if nobody likes either of those douchebags, they still got to be president, and that’s the important thing. Tie color can only win you the presidency, it can’t help you keep it.

Now that I’ve made clear the magnitude of this decision, you’ll understand why I’m a bit reluctant to commit myself. I waver back and forth from hour to hour. To be honest, I’ve only worn fish-print ties my entire life (great conversation starter), so I had to have Anselmo bring me one red and one blue tie. I try them on secretly in my room, while sitting at my dressing table. At first I was taken with the blue one. It brings out a certain steelyness in my eyes, and says to your opponents, I’m cold as ice, biznitch. But then I thought a bit about the red one. When you speak while wearing it, I think there is a subliminal image of blood streaming from your mouth and down your chest, as if from a fresh kill. That imagery is not to be underestimated.

Anselmo is, of course, no help at all. He merely sips his tea quietly, the ghost of a smile perched upon his thin lips, while I model them in turn. To be perfectly frank, this is perhaps the most difficult decision of my life, much harder than my decision to turn off Mom’s breathing machine. But when I get really down, and start to feel as if I’ll never be able to choose, I remember Sophie, and the choice she had to make. It was an important one, like mine, and she too had difficulty and great tribulation leading up to her decision. I take heart in the belief that, like Sophie, I too will be happy in the end.