As many of you may know, we spent the last week campaigning in New Hampshire. I never knew this state was here! It was actually a bit of a surprise when I found out about it. I had never heard of it, and at first was angry that Anselmo would plan to waste my time campaigning overseas. However, it turns out that New Hampshire is not in New England at all; she’s right here in the U.S. of A! I was pretty confused at first, but Anselmo took out the map and showed me where we were going. I recognized it immediately, almost. I know it’s the state I usually get confused with Vermont. I’m pretty sure it’s one of those two, though.

I’ve been to the original Hampshire, and I have to say: it was a dump. For this reason, I had pretty low expectations. I had hope though; I mean, New Mexico is way better than the old one, right? And I have to say, I have found New Hampshire quite beautiful since I arrived here. The scenery is quite varied: there are everything from glens, dales, and glades to hursts, knolls, and hillocks. And Montpelier, the capital, is a lovely town. The people are friendly, and the streets are relatively clean of urine. I wouldn’t change a thing.

But it turns out that the sweet creatures who inhabit this town want to change everything. We went downtown to a little “mom and pop” pizza “joint” and chatted up the locals. I got a slice of New York style pie and talked with some local schmos. They were really fascinating people. They seemed confused, though. They seemed to think that they were in Vermont, which I thought was weird. But I totally understand getting the two confused, like I mentioned earlier. Anyway, talking with these people led me to the conclusion that they want change.

Change is like that bell that makes the dogs salivate, only it works on voters. I found that the more I said it, the happier people were! I talked it up big time; change this, change that, make that illegal, kill those people. That kind of stuff. It really played well, and I had a great time playing make-believe. Also, I left without paying, so I hope they had a good time too. Just to make us even. We were going to go to Boston to get some of those beans they make, and Anselmo said it should take 3 hours by balloon. Unfortunately, it took 12 hours. There was some problem with the map or something. Primaries suck.

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.

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!

People often say to me, Rich, you’re a goddamn millionaire, what do you drive? The answer might surprise you. I know that when a lot of people think of luxury automobiles, they think of the precisely engineered performance of German offerings, the reliable luxury of the finer Japanese brands, or even the classic appeal of the great American status-symbol: the Cadillac. Not me. Not old Rich ‘n Creamy. I only drive, have ever driven, and will only ever drive one vehicle: A Buick.

I’ve driven Buicks all my life, and I’ve never wanted to drive anything else. To me, they represent the undying optimism of the American spirit; that can-do attitude that has made Americans the most respected and envied people in the world. Loyalty, dignity, strength; all words that spring to mind when I think of these vehicles. But Buicks are more than just a philosophy. Some crave them for their high-performance muscle, some for their pretense-free elegance, still others for their bold styling. But there is one thing all Buick fans all have in common: a hatred of disappointment.

I guess I just have Buicks on the brain because last month was pretty tough. My old LeSabre died. At first I didn’t want to believe it. I just sat there in the driveway, endlessly turning the key, until Peggy got home from her Bridge game. There followed an emotional scene, but eventually she got the hard truth through to me. Cars don’t last forever, and sometimes we just have to let them go, no matter how much we love them. I mean, it was a ‘05 after all, and had nearly 30 g’s on it, but it was difficult nonetheless, especially since that was the last model year for the LeSabre, and so it was a bit of a collector’s item. That was when Peggy suggested that we hit the dealership. A glow and a grin spread across my face.

As we pulled up, the excitement became unbearable. I know a lot of people hate to deal with car salesmen, but I think that’s because they’ve never shopped for a Buick. As we got out of Peggy’s Lexus, one of them was on us. He introduced himself as Bruce, and I gave him a warm embrace. After he backed away, a salesman named Eric took me into the showroom. That was where I came face to face with the finest piece of automotive machinery to ever roll out of Detroit, and Buick’s flagship: The Two-thousand and Eight Buick Enclave CXL.

Vital Stats: Dual Electric defogs, power steering, intermittent wipers, premium leather seating appointments. You want to talk horses? How’s 275 sound? And that signature Buick front grill is bigger than ever. Cue saliva glands. Of course, it also includes GM’s proprietary On-Star system, which does everything but wipe my ass for me. It’s so useful, I can’t figure out why no other car manufacturer has even considered implementing anything similar! In short, this beast is fully loaded; so much so that I initially refused to believe Eric when he listed the features. I spit in his face, called him a liar, and pulled his blazer up over his head. Then I sucker-punched him a couple of times until he fell to the ground, and held a letter opener up against his tender, heaving throat. He suggested we take a test drive, and I released my grip on his hair. What a salesman!

The test drive, as usual, really sealed the deal. The sensation of piloting a Buick is difficult to describe. Unlike a lot of less carefully engineered vehicles, the Buick really shields you from any pesky “road feel.” It is almost like you’re not driving at all! Some people will disparage this aspect of the Buick, saying that not being able to feel the road eliminates half the fun of driving; like having sex while wearing 10 condoms at once. Well, if you’ve been to Haiti as much as I have, you learn to appreciate that feeling, let me tell you. Besides, without all of that sensory distraction, you can concentrate on the really important things, like fiddling with the controls on my 10-speaker High-Definition DVD Satelite entertainment system. Handling is equally impressive; the thing corners like it’s on sails!

After the paperwork was wrapped up, I took the long way home to get a little Rich-time with the new wheels. It was lovely. I could talk on the phone, listen to the news, drive, and watch “A Bug’s Life,” all at the same time! I know a lot of people out there pooh-pooh Buicks, but I think that those people are really just ignorant, like those Klansmen that I accidentally gave a speech to last month. If Buicks really sucked, why would Tiger Woods agree to drive one for only $40 million? Exactly, it doesn’t make sense. Maybe you’ve never sat behind the wheel of a Buick. If so, I suggest you go down to your dealership and try one of the three exceptional models on the dwindling Buick roster. Only then will you understand why, when it comes to cars, I don’t drive Buicks–Buicks drive me.

Greetings citizenry! I’m back on the road again after a rare and wonderful weekend at home with my wife Peggy, her goddamn kids, and my wonderful boys. As much as I just love to be on the road constantly pretending to be interested in the needs of every godforsaken slackjaw in this great land of ours, it sure feels good to kick back with the family once in a while and get my bonding on. We did a lot of the typical family stuff that Americans do, from taffy-pulls and may-poles. Saturday night was my favorite White family tradition: Movie night!

Now, I’m a bit of a hard-ass when it comes to movie night, as Peggy and the kids can attest to. There are only a few rules, but they are strictly enforced. First, everyone must be present. This includes Peggy, her two children from her previous marriage (whose names I only repeat when insulting them), my kids, Butch and R.J., and Consuela, our maid. I don’t invite the road crew, because this is supposed to be a vacation, after all. Whenever possible, I try to avoid having Anselmo over when Peggy is home. There is always an inexplicable tension in the air whenever they are in the same room.

The second rule is that there must be mountains of extra-buttery popcorn, and not that microwave bullshit, either. Consuela never disappoints in this department. Whenever she comes back from a visit to her homeland, she smuggles in some unbelievable stuff. Tortillas, Polenta, Hominy; those Mexicans are like little brown corn geniuses!

The third and most important rule is that the movie must be, I repeat, must be Roland Emmerich’s 1996 masterpiece Independence Day. Not only is this movie set on my birthday, but it also features Will Smith’s most compelling performance. I can’t say enough about this film. It’s got everything. Aliens, Presidents, nukes, dogfights, Jeff Goldblum, you name it! There’s no sex, though, unless you consider killing to be a type of sex (which I do). I think the thing I like best about this movie, though, is it’s dignified and heroic portrayal of the President. In fact, if I were completely honest, I would have to say that Bill Pullman’s character of President Thomas J. Whitmore is my single biggest political influence, and perhaps the reason I’m entering politics at all.

You look surprised. “What,” you might ask, “is so great about President Whitmore?” Well first, he’s slightly good looking. Second, when things get tough, he’s not afraid to jump behind the yoke of a fighter jet. Third, his wife dies, which has always been a personal dream of mine. Need more? Fourth, Whitmore’s a brilliant orator. If you didn’t cry when he made that speech right before the final air battle, you need to get some help because guess what? You’re a sociopath. The bottom line is that President Whitmore, while fictional, is better in every way than any actual President we’ve ever had.

Perhaps you are now wondering if there are any ways in which Thomas J. Whitmore and Rich White are similar? Well, let me put it this way: I don’t think it’s a coincidence that our last names are identical for the first four letters. I’ll put it another way as well: Yes, we’re similar. In fact, if elected, I pledge to bring to the White House the decency, courage, and mild good looks that Pullman’s character embodies. While I realize that, as President, I will probably not have to fight actual aliens, I choose to view the aliens as a figurative representation of the various challenges that a President must face. For instance, I would be willing to jump into the cockpit of an F-22 to fix Social Security or Education; that’s the level of commitment I’m talking about. In short, I will not go quietly into the night. I will not vanish without a fight. I will live on. I will survive. Today I celebrate our “Independence Day.”

Oh, as far as movie night is concerned, it didn’t turn out so well. Peggy’s slut daughter Bekka referred to Bill Pullman as Bill Paxton (I think she did it on purpose). Because of the searing rage that exploded within me, I am unsure of the precise course of events following the incident. I woke up the next morning on the floor, and the house was completely empty. Lots of things were broken. I called Anselmo to come pick me up, and I haven’t spoken with the family since. Don’t worry though; sooner or later one of them will call to apologize.

I’ve always been really into hunting. Back in Kansas when I was a boy, my father would take me out at the crack of dawn, and we would go out to the edge of the pond where everything was very still, and a light mist rose up off of the mirror-like surface of the water. Such beauty! Then we would lay out poison bait for the swans. It tasted like bread, so they seemed to really like it. Within a few hours, the last one would stop moving, and we would collect their frail bodies and burn them in the yard, taking care not to inhale the fumes from the fire. It was a lot of fun, and the golf course paid us to do it! I treasure those memories of a simpler time, when cruelty could be put into action with barely a thought, and I think those memories speak to something in all of us. Nowadays, people scold you for shooting squirrels with a pellet gun, but when I was a boy, we used to make masks out of their dried skins as a testament to our prowess. You can go to jail for sticking knitting needles into a rabbit now, but in the good old days, no one minded so long as you stuck to animals. But ours is a dynamic culture, and will continue to adapt as people’s sensibilities change.

The noble craft of hunting still thrives today, though, and last week I went on an expedition with my wife’s brother Cletus. You may have heard of him, since he owns several large conglomerates: J. Cletus Merriwether III. He’s super rich like myself, and owns a great deal of land in the Adirondacks. The trip was a lot of fun, and rekindled those old treasured memories of my boyhood roots. We woke up early on a Saturday and packed up the Jeep with a bunch of beer, guns, and pizza, then headed out to the other side of the property, which lies on the side of a mountain and provides an unmatched vista of the breathtaking Adirondack sunrise. There were several stands that had been permanently erected in some of the more strategic areas, and were difficult to see due to the large quantity of military-grade camouflage netting that covered them.

After we loaded our cache of weapons and provisions into one of the stands, we settled down into that familiar old pastime of the hunter: the waiting game. Luckily, because Cletus has several automated deer feeders about 100 yards from the stand, we didn’t have to wait long. A majestic buck entered the scene and approached the feeder, which was dropping soy pellets onto the ground beneath the boughs of a stately Silver Maple that I admired through my scope as I brought the crosshairs to bear on the buck’s grace-ridden throat. My breathing quickened as I tightened my grip on the lightweight ballistic carbon forestock on my Heckler & Koch PSG-1 semi-automatic sniper rifle. I steadied myself, and on my exhale, I slowly squeezed the trigger, sending a 7.62mm NATO round into my prey. The spray was incredible, as was the look of sheer disbelief in the eyes of this beast. For a second, we seemed to share an intimate–almost sexual–connection, that of predator and prey, but then he was dead. In this battle, I had been the victor, but next time? For that answer, we would have to wait and see.

But again, we didn’t have to wait long. The rest of the afternoon was pretty much the same way. With each kill, Cletus would radio his men to come collect the carcass, which saved us a lot of inconvenience. They even sprayed down the area so that the other deer would not smell the fresh kill on the leaves that lined the forest floor. We had pizza, beers, and some manly conversation, and in the end I got pretty lit. I don’t know how many beers I ended up having before I used that 50-cal to bring down that pregnant doe, but I can say one thing: I was feeling no pain. That was a messy one, for sure, because I was using some new ammunition that one of Cletus’ companies was developing for the U.S. Military. It was made of something called a “prestressed ceramic maniform” that pretty much explodes when it hits bone. The technology may be high-tech, but the result is something anyone can understand: A shot to hell deer. Cletus was a bit surprised to see her, since the synthetic pheromones his people spray are only supposed to attract bucks. I guess we’ll file that one under “Bonus!”

After we killed all of the animals that had been placed that morning, we packed up our things and drove on back to the lodge. There, we continued drinking and having a good time. He asked if I knew about the “most dangerous game.” I said yes, that I was well acquainted with jai-alai. People get hurt all of the time in that game, because the balls are very hard and move very quickly. He told me that he was actually talking about killing people by setting them loose in the forest without weapons and then following them and shooting them like deer. I told him that didn’t sound very dangerous, and he got frustrated and went to bed. I was tired too, so I hit the bunk as well, where I slept like a goddamn baby.

When I got back on Sunday evening, Peggy told me the she sensed a change in me. I think it must be the thousand-yard-stare. That’s the thing you get when you go to war and when you come back, you have a faraway look in your eye because you saw such cool shit. I think that the three hours I spent in a well-hidden deer stand did something special to me, like maybe I connected with some primal self that lies within all of us, but which we all keep hidden. A self that is born of the battle for survival, the tooth-and-nail struggle in which one dies so that the other may live. With the acceptance of this self came the respect for life that so often comes to those who have gotten life’s precious blood on their hands. Of course, in my case, that would be figurative blood; because Cletus’ staff keeps his weapons so tidy, my hands didn’t actually get dirty at all. Besides, there was quite a supply of moist towelettes up there in the deer stand. We were eating pizza after all, and that can be messy.