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.

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.