Anyone who has turned on the news lately has probably heard about the Caucus taking place in Iowa on Thursday. All of the candidates are there, of course, taking every available opportunity to mug for a camera, slobber on a microphone, or feel up a constituent. All of the candidates, that is, save one: yours truly.

That’s right, citizens, I’m sitting this one out. You might be wondering why. Is it because I have received absolutely no recognition whatsoever from either party, and therefore would not be eligible to win any sort of nomination anyway? No. Well then, is it because I have not spent even a single cent on getting my message out in Iowa? Getting warmer. Ok, Rich, is it because you have a burning contempt for the people and very soil of Iowa and therefore vehemently refuse to set foot into that dogforsaken cornhole? Bingo!

You think this is sour grapes, do you? Perhaps you think I’m being unfair to those “good people” who call Iowa home. Well, before you go run off to Des Moines to hug and kiss your friends there, let me tell you a few things you may not know about these animals. And I’m not worried about those Iowans finding out what I have to say, either. While you may be having a good time reading this, an Iowan certainly would not. An Iowan has never had a good time reading anything, because an Iowan can’t read anything except a liquor bottle.

Ever hear of incest? Well the good folks of Iowa sure have. In fact, 40% of all sexual intercourse in Iowa takes place between family members. I mean, I don’t doubt that you can have a wonderfully pleasurable orgasm inside of an uncle, sister, or wife, but where I come from we use a little something called “restraint” to avoid such unforgivable sins. I guess in Iowa they haven’t developed that concept just yet. I guess we shouldn’t hurry them, though; let’s let them figure out some of the simpler things first, like the wheel or nixtamalization (the soaking of dried maize in lye-water until the hulls are removed, thereby improving the accessiblity of niacin and amino acids).

But Rich, you might say, Iowa is such a pretty name for a place. It must be so nice! Are you kidding me? Well I’ll tell you an interesting fact about that. The name “Iowa” is taken from the Indian word “Iowanttokillmyself.” And it makes sense really, since nearly 30% of Iowa’s citizens kill themselves at some point during their lives. I don’t want to make light of this, because this is a truly sad situation. These are people who hate Iowa so much that they don’t want to live, but they’re too stupid to figure out that they only need to move. This is a real humanitarian crisis, and I donate lots of money to the appropriate charities (from a distance).

By now you might be saying to yourself, jesus, Rich, what’s your problem? You might even be wondering if there might be some other reason for me to hate Iowa and her dreg-people. Well, as a matter of fact you’d be correct on that one. Anselmo begged me not to reveal this, but frankly I think I ought to. When I was just a boy, my mother went to Dubuque for her sister’s funeral. While she was there, she had an extramarital tryst with some field-cretin. When she came home, she confessed everything to my father, who was utterly heartbroken. Her excuse was that she had been emotionally shattered by her sister’s death, and the funeral had left her lonely, weak, and susceptible to the advances of some husk-covered troglodyte. I’m sure that’s what it seemed like to her, but I believe it had more to do with the state of Iowa itself. My aunt was, after all, an Iowan, and no profit can come to those who associate with Iowans.

Sometimes I see it in my nightmares. A drunken Iowa hillbilly (for some reason, it’s always Orville Reddenbacher in the dream), his sneering lips dotted with stray kernels, forces her into the field and lays her down among the stalks. Then, muttering dark incorntations, he tears into her with his knobby cob. His thrusting is rough and uncouth, like that of an angry mule. At long last, his climax rushes forth like a stream of hot grits across her thighs. The scene sickens me, and by Jupiter, I shall never set foot in Iowa as long as I live.

In summation, if I become President, it will be without the votes of those Iowan subhumans. If you don’t live in Iowa, don’t ever go there. If you are currently in Iowa, leave or commit suicide. If your job sends you to a meeting in Iowa, quit; they don’t care about you. If your plane is set to land in Iowa, jump out of it. I can’t stress this enough: Iowa sucks. I’ll see you bitches in Wyoming.

Anselmo approached me the other day, his countenance dour. He seems to think that some voters might find my language objectionable. He thinks words like poop, fuck, snatch, cockmaster, and doucherape might alienate some groups and therefore hinder my chances at the Presidency. You’ll have to pardon Anselmo, he’s not from here. I told him that Americans are strong, like cowboys, and that our minds cannot be sullied by such words or the concepts they refer to. Real Americans are only offended by truly abhorrent words, like tyranny, communism, or humility.

In fact, I believe that my “plain-spokenness” will endear me to the public, since profanity is a part of the American’s very soul. For example, do you remember when Vice President Cheney shot that old man in the face? While there was a big to-do for a while, in the long run I believe the incident made the previously aloof, inaccessible Cheney more human. After all, who hasn’t fantasized about shooting an old man in the face at close range with a shotgun? I believe I’ve made my point fairly clear.

Titburgers, swampcrotch, trouser musk. These are the words I’m referring to; those bawdy old terms that we first heard as youths, perhaps uttered by mistake by our father as he smashed his thumb with a hammer. While he may have immediately felt guilty for uttering such filth in our presence, even at that young age we somehow understood the raw honesty those terms convey. No one hits their thumb with a hammer and screams “rose petal.” That wouldn’t in any way describe the extreme displeasure of the situation. More likely, he would scream something like “Ass-rocket!”

I think the American people crave a similar honesty when it comes to matters of public policy. If I think that a bill is a Twatsack or a Turd Milkshake, I ought to be able to say so. No, Anselmo, Americans are tired of the “bob and weave” nature of modern political discourse. They want a candidate that speaks his mind; tells it like it is. They want a President who will call the Speaker of the House a Cuntbucket, a leader who isn’t afraid to tell President Putin to go surf a choad. Yes, my language can be coarse, I’ll be the first to admit it. But perhaps the world needs coarse language right now. Perhaps it’s our only hope. Think about it.

Ok, I’m a little emotional about this one. Yesterday I read an article in the so-called New York Times written by a certain Mr. Brit Burk. In said article, said “journalist” was lambasting me for some comments I made during a speech I gave to some firefighters at the Columbus Rotary a couple of weeks back. Mr. Burke decided that taking a few of my words out of context and reworking them to his advantage might give him a shot at a Pulitzer. Well, Brit, I hate to tell you, but the media isn’t just for journalists anymore, and I’m going to use the power of the internet to set the record straight and expose you for the unethical hack that you are.

First let me explain that what Mr. Burk was trying to suggest about me is that I don’t know what happened on 9/11. While I admit there was some confusion surrounding a couple of the questions the firefighter heroes asked me that day, to suggest that I am unaware of the greatest tragedy in Human history is absurd, to say the least. Yes, when asked about 9/11, I thought I was being asked about a tuna salad sandwich I had eaten on that day. My mistake, I’ll admit it. But here’s what Mr. Burke won’t tell you: We had just eaten a catered lunch before I took the podium, and we had been offered a selection of sandwiches, including tuna salad. So when that muscular, young firefighter asked that question, I thought we were still thinking about sandwiches. I normally expect a bit more of a segue before I talk about atrocities, sorry.

What if I said to you, “How has 3/19 changed your global outlook?” What would you say? Since you’re not a walking almanac, you might say, “I’m not sure why that day is significant.” Well, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not a walking almanac, either. I may be a politician, but I have weaknesses too. I’m terrible with dates, just ask my wife. C’mon fellas, you know what I’m talking about here. I’m terrible with birthdays, anniversaries, court dates, you name it. Of course, Anselmo keeps me briefed as best he can, but he can’t be there all the time; sometimes I just have to wing it. But just because you don’t know a fact on demand doesn’t mean you don’t know what that fact means. I know that on that September day our way of life was attacked by some liberty-hating terrorists, destroying forever the fragile innocence of our nation, and bringing down upon us a new and dangerous age of global ideological conflict. So what if I know the date? After all, we all know that the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, but do we all know the date? Of course not. It’s enough just to know it happened in June.

I think the real issue here is that I seem to be the only one who has two reasons to remember 9/11. While most people only remember the frantic news speculation and the horrifying images of people jumping hundreds of feet to certain death, I happen to also have seared into my brain images of the best tuna salad sandwich of my life. Sure, my life isn’t close to over, but I’m certain I’ll never have another to compare to it. It had walnuts in it, for Christ’s sake. And I don’t know if it was Tarragon or what, but whatever it was fit just perfectly. Not too much mayo and a couple of onion slices, all on lightly toasted pumpernickel; that is truly a sandwich I will never forget.

This morning, I met Anselmo for our daily campaign update slash pancake breakfast, and while the flapjacks were particularly moist and sweet, Anselmo’s countenance was troubled. Gone was the quiet and joyous sparkle that so often danced in his ebony eyes. When I asked him if he was feeling well, he told me that, in fact, something was troubling him. He said he was concerned that certain activities in my past might come back to haunt me. Apparently politicians, especially those involved in the high-stakes world of presidential electioneering, are routinely brought down when their former improprieties are brought to light. Now, Anselmo and I have been in this game a long time together, and I suppose he’s right to be a bit concerned. I mean, imagine how embarrassing it would be if it were reported in the New York Times that in college I once admitted to the emergency room with severe anal bleeding after a Frat party? Embarrassing, of course, if it was broken by the media.

You see, I suggested to Anselmo that I should simply come clean about any of the juicy tidbits that lie in my past, and thereby diffuse any potential embarrassment. After all, it’s worked in the past. Everybody went goo-goo for Dubya when they found out that he had been a lush and a raging snow-nose for all those years. And the only reason everybody was pissed at Clinton for his pot debacle was because he acted like a total puss about it. Well I inhaled, so don’t worry. Good and deep. Repeatedly as well. In fact, I constructed what was for a time the largest gravity bong (by displacement) east of the Mississippi River! The awesome bongs notwithstanding, I deeply regret the numerous times I smoked marijuana, and it is this powerful regret that makes those memories so wonderful.

Anyway, Anselmo thought that coming clean about my indiscretions was a mistake. But who cares what he thinks? When he runs for president, he can make the decisions. Besides, I’m proud of the shame I feel about these things, and I can’t wait to ask for forgiveness, so lets begin:

We’ve already covered Marijuana, right? WRONG! I used to grow it. Yeppers. I sold to everyone in my dorm at Harvard, and to several dorms at Yale. I tried to move some green at Oxford, but that came to a quick end when I was severely beaten by a “competitor.” I won’t say who it was, but let’s just say he’s running against me.

Don’t worry, the fun doesn’t stop with pot. No sir. I also experimented with hallucinogens. That was one of the most interesting and embarrassing decades of my life. It started with paper; standard white blotter. Later, I would get the gels, which were way better. Eventually, we just flew out to Cali for liquid by the vial. Buying in bulk saves, right? Just ask Sam Walton’s corpse (oh yeah, I said it). We used to go out to the woods and get loaded on the stuff. You know, light fires and hunt each other. Sometimes we mixed it with PCP, but that was only when we really needed to chill out.

Of course, Anselmo’s trying to pull me away from the keyboard now. Not now you Bastard! Can’t you see I’m trying to come to terms with my past? How can I move forward and ask people to give me the ultimate power for which I lust if they cannot trust me? No. I must do this. I must beg for forgiveness. And forgiveness can only be given through an honest reckoning of truth. Right, Anselmo? Get the hell out of here!

Where was I? Right, so this one night I was totally wigging balls and listening to Led Leppelin III. I could hear this repeating pattern in the music (”Since I been loving you” I believe) that sounded like someone whispering “you’re on fire, you’re on fire,” over and over again. Just when I was about to freak, a buddy of mine came up and pushed my chair over. I looked up at him, and he was laughing, but it looked like his face was totally melting off. It was crazy. And shameful.

Coke. Yeah, I blew some. Big whoop. And it was fun, too. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Dubya. He knows what I’m talking about. If you approve of his administration, that is. If you don’t, just forget about it; I’m not anything like that guy. As I was saying, I spent more than a few nights shoveling snow, if you know what I mean. I was like “eight balls? hells yeah.” That stuff made me paranoid, though. The last time I did it I found myself standing on my front porch holding a letter opener to a pizza man’s throat. I thought he was spying on us, and I was about to “return to sender” when my roommate came out and stopped me. Turns out he had ordered that pizza! Talk about boners! Needless to say, I don’t touch that stuff anymore. Of course I don’t touch any of it anymore because it was completely wrong and immoral to begin with. It’s in the bible, maybe.

Wow, this is fun. Catholics get to do this kind of thing all the time, right? Now, I never touched heroin, mainly because I can’t stand needles. Smokable heroin, though, yeah, guilty as charged (though not in an actual court). I’ll keep this one brief: it’s as good as they say.

Hmmm, now I know there’s more. What Wolf? Prescriptions? No, never got into those for two reasons. First, it’s way easier to get the illegal stuff. Second, I just don’t trust those drug companies. Unless they need some legislation passed, of course. In that case, I’m your man. Crack? No they didn’t have that stuff when I was growing up, or Meth either, except in prescription form, and I just explained that one.

Now, In the late eighties, I started to get into the whole zen thing and so I took some time off and traveled around Asia. I met many interesting folks along the way, and more than once shared rice and water with peasants on the straw covered floors of a dung-ridden hovel. Needless to say, I saw some things. In fact, it was here that I tried something that I am reluctant to bring up here because it is, well, unconventional. But you can’t hide things from the public, can you? Of course not. I engaged in an obscure practice known as “quỳ, quỳ xuống đá” in the original Vietnamese. This translates into something like “kneeling to the stone.” It is apparently very taboo, and it was only later that I learned how it was made, but I’ll try to explain. First, you grind up a quantity of dried testicles and a bit of honey in a stone dish. I don’t know what type of testicles they were, and I didn’t want to. Once you have a fine paste, you mix in an equal quantity of Kava powder, which is made from dried, ground leaves from some Polynesian plant. The resulting mush is then rolled into small (half inch) balls which are dried and then inserted into the anus. I know. It sounds totally crazy, but it was the best high ever. It started off with rage mixed with an intense feeling on invulnerability, then tapered off into a mellow sense of well-being and oneness with the universe. The whole thing lasted for about 30 hours. I haven’t done that one since. Who has that kind of time, anyway?

Ok, I think we’re good for now. Don’t worry, though, if I think of any more I’ll let you know.

About five minutes ago, I opened a really nice looking envelope that Pepper had put into my inbox. It was off-white, and made of lovely 100lb. textured, 40% Egyptian cotton stock. Let me cut to the chase here: It was a cease and desist letter from Rob Schneider’s lawyer. What? You don’t remember him? Well, you might know him better as Deuce Bigelow, Male Gigolo. Or perhaps as that little piece of flesh that’s always attached to the end of Adam Sandler’s schlong. Below, I have reproduced the letter verbatim (with edits):

Dear Mr. White:

It has come to my client’s attention that you have made an unauthorized use of his copyrighted title of “the Richmeister” (the “Title”) in the preparation of a work derived therefrom. My client has reserved all rights regarding this stupid-ass concept, first published in 1994, on the increasingly irrelevant NBC television production “Saturday Night Live.” Your blog entitled “My Stepdaughter’s new ‘Beau’” makes reference to the Title and clearly used the Title as its basis, as if you even knew that some moron had filed actual paperwork to protect something so seemingly inconsequential.

As you neither asked for nor received permission from my client, a twelfth-rate midget comedian, to use the Title as the basis for your accidental reference nor to make or distribute copies, including electronic copies, of same, my client believes you have willfully infringed his rights under 17 U.S.C. Section 101 et seq. and could be liable for statutory damages as high as $150,000 as set forth in Section 504(c)(2) therein.

My client demand’s that you immediately cease the use and distribution of all infringing works derived from the Title, and all copies, including electronic copies, of same, that you deliver to my client, if applicable, all unused, undistributed copies of same, or destroy such copies immediately and that you desist from this or any other infringement of client’s rights in the future. If I have not received an affirmative response from you by June 16, 2007, indicating that you have fully complied with these requirements, further action shall be taken. Possible actions might include, but would not be limited to, taking your penis into my mouth and tongue-wrestling you to a creamy dispensation.

Very truly yours,
Rob Schneider’s Total Fucking Moron Attorney and Sons LLC.

Wow. How desperate is this guy? I mean, Tiny Elvis was pretty cool, but what has he done since? Oh, I could list the embarrassments, but I’ll let the critics do that for me. $150,000 per infringement? Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Looks like a total of $1.8 million. With tip, we’ll call it a cool two-mil. I’ll leave the money on the nightstand on my way out.

Here is a personal message from me to you “Mr.” Schneider: I will infringe on your shit all day if I feel like it. I’m rich, bitch, and I’ll cut checks to your hack ass all day so long as I can expose you for the talentless whore that you know you are. Besides, I should be the one sending you letters, since your “Deuce Bigelow” franchise bears a “significant similarity” to the deuces I’ve been churning out in my bathroom for decades. I guess this can be considered an “affirmative response.” Sorry it’s a few days late.

Thanks for your continuing support, and I hope I can count on your vote in the upcoming election. Richcrest OUT!

I used to watch a lot of porn in college, so I think it’s safe to say that I know a thing or two about women; lesbians, in particular. Unfortunately, this knowledge didn’t get me very far on my recent appearance on ABC’s “The View.” I don’t know if you’ve heard of this show or not, (I hadn’t) but apparently it is quite popular with the unemployed, and possibly the unemployable. Anyway, when I received the invite to appear, I was skeptical. I hadn’t heard of any of the women who host the program, but at Anselmo’s behest, I accepted. As the date for the appearance approached, however, I began to get nervous. Was I being set up? What should I expect? So I decided to do a little research.

I made a call to a good friend of mine who I like to call “The Donald.” He’s my lawyer Donald Siegelmann and we go way back; all the way to Princeton. He’s my Jewish friend, so he’s my go-to guy for advice on things like medicine, law, jewelry, banking, and the entertainment industry. He had some interesting things to say about the show and its hosts. Apparently, it is a talk show with a sort of “Coffee Klatch” format, hosted by four women, all of whom are lesbians. The boss lesbian is a big lady named Rosie, who has a loud mouth and sits on the left. There is also an old grandmother lesbian named Barbara. Then there is a jewish lesbian named Joy (chosen, I suspect, because of that race’s inherent adeptness at observational comedy), and finally the hot or “lipstick” lesbian, whose name I don’t care about sits on the far right. They sit around and chat about all manner of topics, from tampons to maxi pads, and they also have an interview segment where some important person comes by and they ask him questions. Pretty basic stuff, so when Anselmo dropped me off at the studio that morning, I was confident and relaxed; ready to take advantage of my first TV appearance.

Everything started out pretty nice. I was practicing the new smile that I had been working on (the Edwards) when there was a knock at the door. When I opened it, there was a big black-haired woman wearing what looked to be maternity clothing standing outside the door grimacing at me. She introduced herself as Rosie, and told me that she was very excited to meet me. I reciprocated by telling her that I too was pleased to make her acquaintance, and that I was not the least bit disgusted by her homosexuality, but that I would prefer to not shake hands. Then I excused myself and went back to the mirror for a few last minute tweaks to my technique.


When the show went live, I was hustled off to a place called the “green room,” which was pretty nice, though the only green thing in it was a puke stain in the corner that I later learned was left there by Danny DeVito. I love his work on TV and film, but his vomit was a bit of a disappointment. There was food, but since I only eat Surf ‘N’ Turf, I passed. They did provide a TV, though, which I initially thought would be a source of entertainment, but I soon found that there was no way to change the channel on it. I poked my head out the door and asked a crew member how I could get CNBC on this biatch, but he just said it was “closed circuit,” or some such nonsense. I managed to take care of that one pretty quickly, though, since to open the circuit, all you have to do is unplug the damn thing. Then I sat back and flipped through a copy of People magazine while I waited for my cue.

About 20 minutes later, the stage-hand comes in with all sorts of attitude, telling me that I missed my cue and that I need to get out there in a hurry. I told dude to chill and then walked out on the stage to some reasonable applause. The only available seat was in the middle of the four ladies, and so I sat down there and immediately felt extremely vulnerable. It is very disconcerting to be surrounded by lesbians, knowing that if you are looking at one of them, there are others that you can’t see that could be making out with each other. They welcomed me warmly, though, and started asking questions. I don’t remember precisely what they asked, mainly issues related stuff. I played it pretty cool, talking slowly so they could understand, telling them how nice their hair and outfits looked, asking them what kinds of things they would like to cook for me. You know, just being charming and conversational. I thought it was going pretty well.

Then everything went to Shitsville. Rosie asked me a question about my views on Gay Marriage. Now I had been preparing for this one, so I had my answer pretty much planned out. “Gay Marriage,” I said, “is a great idea, because by allowing them to pair off and sequester themselves, we could ensure that none of the gays could reproduce, thereby preventing the passing on to the next generation the gay-genes that make them want to do it with people of their same sex.” This was, in my opinion, a very well thought-out and irrefutably logical answer. I found out very shortly that I was wrong.

Rosie opened her mouth and I suddenly got very bored. She seemed to be saying lots of things, but I couldn’t understand any of it. Perhaps she was speaking a language I don’t know, or maybe her voice was of a pitch that my ears are not sensitive to. Either way, I eventually turned the other direction to talk with Barbara. You see, I’ve always had a thing for girls with speech impediments. I know it sounds crazy but I think everyone has a turn-on that they can’t explain. In this case, however, the explanation is known to me. I was molested by my favorite babysitter when I was young, and she had something wrong with her palate. When she talked, it always sounded like she had a tablespoon of peanut butter in the roof of her mouth. Anyway, I knew Barbara was gay, but I couldn’t resist, so I tried to lay on the charm.

I wasn’t having much luck with Barbara. She seemed distracted by something, so I looked back over my shoulder and saw Rosie, her mouth still moving furiously. I knew I could never get a word in with Barbara with Rosie doing that so finally I said “hey, could you keep quiet?” Evidently she could not, because she threw her two-quart coffee mug in my direction. Luckily, I do Pilates, so I was able to easily avoid the mug (plus, girls can’t throw, even if they think they are men), and it hit Ms. Behar in the bosom, sending scalding coffee spraying into her face.

At this point, you might say “wow, Rich, that is truly a situation that cannot be repaired.” But Rich White doesn’t give up that easily. There, amidst the chaos, I thought of faithful Anselmo. He would want me to summon every ounce of gumption available to me and salvage that interview, so that is what I resolved to do. Unfortunately at this point, recovery was no longer an option. Behar had been taken off the stage by paramedics, Barbara had given up and stomped off to her dressing room, and Rosie had savagely bitten a Security Guard’s hand and was being tazed repeatedly. Not knowing what to do, I stood up and walked out of the studio to the curb. Anselmo drove up a few minutes later, and we went and got ice cream. It was a pretty good day.

I was shocked this week when I heard John and Elizabeth Edwards’ announcement about her inoperable breast cancer. It was truly heartbreaking, and I extend my solemn condolences. In a way though, it was also very inspirational. The sheer strength that Elizabeth is demonstrating is truly breathtaking, and it really serves as a reminder of what dignity the human animal is capable of in the most dire of circumstances. I was also struck by the singular nature of the Edwards’ relationship. It is so wonderful that she would be willing to die of cancer to get her husband elected President. And I’m not trying to sell Mr. Edwards short, either. His dedication to the acquisition of power is impressive. When placed in that position, a weaker man would want to spend each fleeting remaining day with his wife. What Avarice! He will prove a formidable opponent!

Unfortunately, my wife Peggy doesn’t quite seem to have the level of dedication to my dreams that Mrs. Edwards has to her husband’s. Not only has Peggy not developed cancer in any part of her body, but she has also been unable to contract any other sort of life threatening disease. She did complain about a sore throat about a week ago, but that certainly isn’t going to earn me the pity vote with the Edwards’ out there cancering it up, and she stopped complaining about that about five days ago, so it’s probably not turning into anything. Basically, I’m starting to feel a bit like I’m not getting the support I need, so I decided to confront her about it.

I guess you could describe her reaction as “turbo-pissed,” and during our exchange, she said a few nasty things. Of course, the first tactic she tried was to turn it around and make it all about her. Typical. Then she called me an a-hole. Also typical. Then she told me that what I was saying didn’t even make sense, that a person cannot control whether or not they get sick, and that even if a person could, asking her to do that was beyond selfish. Way typical. She was menstruating though, so I’m sure she’ll apologize later after she comes down off her rag-rage (I’ll get into a more detailed menstruation discussion in another post).

In the meantime, I thought I would at least get some plans together so that when she’s more receptive, we’ll have an actionable plan. I didn’t even consider cancer, since it’s been done, so I started thinking about other, more dramatic afflictions, and narrowed it down to four: 1. Parkinson’s. This one has done wonders for Michael J. Fox and so I think it will work for Peggy too. It has the advantage of being embarrassingly visible, and will therefore make everyone exceedingly uncomfortable. 2. Alzheimer’s. Everyone agrees that this one is really sad (sad=votes), and it has the added benefit of a very public “Where’s Peggy” crisis event. You know, we drop her off somewhere, pretend she wandered off, wait a week or so until someone finds her. We could even give him (or her) a prize or something; maybe one of those coupon books that high school football teams give out. 3. Tourette’s. This one is also very obvious, and it is possible that I could have her blurt out attacks on my opponents without my having to take responsibility for them. The drawback is that this affliction is sometimes more funny than it is sad, and I’m not sure if the comedy vote will completely offset the pity vote. 4. Rectovaginal Fistula. I can’t describe this one without vomiting, so look it up. It’s pretty bad, and would definitely get attention. The only concern is that I could open myself up to accidentally committing sodomy.

I’ve also considered that she may not reconsider her initial refusal to help my career through personal sacrifice. In this case, I’ve considered some other options. I could have Wolf t-bone her car while she drives to the store one day; try to quad her out or something. I’d have to make sure she is driving her Lexus at the time, though, because if she took my Buick, she’d probably be completely unhurt. That’s just the nature of the brand.

I also have to consider the fact that she is, perhaps, right. Maybe I am being selfish, trying to find a way to maim or kill her simply to get people to vote for me. Perhaps I ought to rely on my principles, personality, limber rhetoric, and intense wealth to get elected rather than cheap gimmicks. We’ll see what Peggy says after her uterus chills out a bit. But if I turn on the news tomorrow, and Mitt Romney’s wife has the female genitalia on her face, the gloves are going to come off, son. Mark my words.