A lot of people have been asking me where I stand on the Iraq war. I have thus far declined to comment on the issue, but today I am ready to break my silence. I feel that the war was a horrible foreign policy blunder, and I would like to go on record with my pledge to bring our troops home from Iraq immediately; before I’m elected, if possible. If we are to expect our nation’s brave sons and daughters to fight and die for our freedom, the least we can do is call upon them only when absolutely necessary. In fact, I pledge to bring the troops home not only from Iraq, but from every other country as well; we’re going to need them.

You see, Americans love war; we’re good at it. Of course, where foreign policy is concerned, one must always look first to the cool hand of Diplomacy in dire times. Sooner or later, though, it’s time to invade. And when that time comes, it’s helpful to have a target picked out. Well, it just so happens that I have a target in mind. My war is going to be called Police Action II: Operation “Jungle Payback”. You guessed it: ‘Nam.

While the Primaries have thus far been politically useless to me, they have nonetheless given me a valuable opportunity to talk to average Joes across the nation. One such Joe is Mr. Joe Dixon, a South Carolina war veteran. We spoke for a few hours the other day and he seemed so average, in fact, that I have decided to assume that his beliefs are shared by most other Americans. You, through him, had a lot to say, and I was certainly listening. It seems that one day in 1967, you were on patrol in Koc-Suk when you stepped on a land mine. When you awoke at the field hospital, your left leg had been entirely removed, and your right was gone at the knee. You came home and found yourself unable to live normally, and gradually retreated into loneliness and alcoholism. After a drunk driving accident that left your two teenage sons dead, you had a couple of suicide attempts, but ended up finding Jesus. Which brings us to today. And today, you want to go back and get rid of those skew-eyed rice-rats for good. They took your goddamn legs, and you want revenge.

Well I want revenge for you. If elected, I promise that Police Action II: Operation “Jungle Payback” will drop in my first 90 days. And although I mean “drop” in the hip-hop sense, I mean it also in the carpet-bombing sense. Yeah, a lot of Presidents don’t play that card anymore. Since smart bombs came out, everyone has pretty much forgotten what Mr. 1000lb Incendiary Device can do. In this case, though, I just don’t think subtlety is a luxury we can afford. Plus, I’m a real stickler when it comes to getting those little historical details right (I’ve already contacted Dow about firing up their Agent Orange machine). After the bombing, the Carrier Groups will go in to decimate any remaining military units. In Phase III, the Marines hit the ground to finish off the enemy women and children. They will go to each house, toss in a freedom-bomb, and then spray out the freedom-guts with a freedom-hose. You want an Exit Strategy? No problem; I will send in 1 million bulldozers to physically remove all of the landmass of Vietnam to barges, which will subsequently be emptied into the Marinara Trench. All that will remain is some shiny new Cambodian coastline!

While we are obviously still in the very early planning stages of this thing, I do have a few ideas with respect to personnel. Sylvester Stallone will be promoted to General. There are plenty of other Generals to actually run the effort, I just want Sly to be present at briefings in a torn tank-top; you know, to his brand to the project. Also–and this may be sad news to some–I will be replacing Chuck Norris as senior leader of the Delta Force. Now that he’s come out for Huckabee, there’s no way I’d let him stay. I don’t care how many stones he can kill with one bird. The job is instead going to that Mac guy from those commercials. That should be the last we see of him!

I know what you’re thinking: what about the liberals? No problem, there’s something here for them too. You know the air pollution problem; global swarming or whatever? Well the Vietnamese are responsible for it. These backwards near-people burn dung for warmth, which is unbelievably disgusting. It’s like a thousand times worse than coal. Knocking them out of commission would do a lot to help Mother Earth in her struggle against us.

I have to say, I’m really excited to be bringing the troops home so I can send them out again. I think that the best way to support our troops is to send them somewhere where the people are easy to kill. Look out Charlie, Uncle Sam is coming for you!

As you can probably imagine, the Primaries have me a little frustrated. I need to blow off a little steam, so today the Rich White Presidential campaign is officially going negative. When a campaign “goes negative,” that just means that they’re laying the smack down on the other candidates. Unlike Anselmo, I don’t believe that voters have disdain for a negative campaign. In fact, the statistics are clear: Americans love negativity. As evidence I submit the following: Britney Spears, rubbernecking, gossip, explosions, etc. Below, then, you will find an itemized list of my opponents, complete with the most damning information I can assemble to make you hate them. By the way, a lot of these candidates have already dropped out of the race. I’m just covering them in case they ever try to run for anything ever again:

Sam Brownback- It is difficult to believe that, in this day and age, a person with a name like “Sam Brownback” can so long elude public derision. In this case only will I confine my criticism to his name; his last name, more precisely. Brownback. When people hear “brown,” what they actually hear is “shit.” Anyone who has chuckled at a UPS commercial will know what I’m talking about. Similarly, the word “back” gives on the impression of “ass,” especially when it is in close proximity with the word “brown.” In this case, the two share the same word. So, in summation, Mr. Brownback’s name is in fact read subliminally as “Sam Shit-ass.” Imagine checking that box!

Hillary Clinton- Contrary to popular belief, Hillary is actually a woman. I guess no one told her that women can’t be President in this country. Someone better get this lady a copy of the Constitution. It’s a ridiculous idea; can you imagine Ben Franklin as a woman? Obviously not. Needless to say, I’m not to worried about her.

Barack Obama- Mr. Obama is everything Hillary is not: a man. In fact, that may be the only difference between the two! I actually find Mr. Obama very compelling, what with his hopeful changeyness and all. And a good Irish-Catholic name to boot! What’s not to trust? Still, something about him makes me uneasy; I can’t quite put my finger on exactly what, though. It just seems that there’s something wrong with him. I think you should trust my gut on this one.

Mike Gravel- Nothing to worry about here. I’ve already forgotten his name.

Ron Paul- This guy has unnatural amount of concern for rights. I mean, why is he so interested in privacy? What’s he hiding? I can think of someone else who was interested in privacy. His name was the Unabomber. Are you the Unabomber, Dr. Paul? Well, probably not, since the Unabomber has already been apprehended. Nonetheless, from here forward I will refer to Dr. Paul as the “Ronabomber.”

Mitt Romney- I wouldn’t say I’m bothered that he’s a mormon, except that I am. I don’t know about having a representative of some crazy fringe group as President. Who’s his Vice President going to be, Tom Cruise? Besides, a mitt is something you put your hand in; if that’s the criteria for a good leader, then I’d like to nominate my wife.

Rudy Giuliani- I don’t know why you wouldn’t vote for this guy. He’s super-strong and super-brave, as he proved when he stopped 9/11 from happening. Oh wait, my mistake; he let it happen. That’s right. Well, if you think letting 9/11 happen isn’t a big deal, go ahead and vote for him. I’ll pass, if you don’t mind. Plus, he’s starting to look more and more like the Crypt Keeper, which is what we’ve always wanted in a leader, right?

Dennis Kucinich- I won’t spend too long on this guy. How do I know he can’t be President? Well, I looked at him, that’s how. Seriously, everybody knows it’s true. He just doesn’t have that “special something” that makes a leader. His wife, on the other hand, has that quality in spades. Pretty hot slice of wife-cake, I don’t mind saying. I might be interested in something like that for a running mate, actually.

Joe Biden- I like Joe. I’ve played golf with him. I’ve gone to his kid’s birthdays. We hang out all the time; he’s a nice guy. The problem is, he smells awful. You can’t see it on TV, honestly, but anyone who knows him can back me up. It’s not his fault; it’s some glandular disorder or something. It’s actually pretty sad. Not sad enough not to make fun of, though. But at the end of the day, you can’t have some turd-smelling MF going to meet the foreign dignitaries. It’s just not cool. PWNED!

Arthur Branch- When I found out that District Attorney Branch was running for President, I was ambivalent. Part of me was happy that I would to get to meet him. Another part of me, though, was happy that I would get to stomp him into the ground. Don’t get me wrong, I respect his work in putting away all those criminals while also poignantly pointing up the ambiguities of the criminal justice system. I just don’t think bossing Sam Waterson around is resume enough to lead this nation.

Mike Huckabee- Mike is a nice guy, and real trustworthy. For instance, I bet you could trust him not to sleep with your wife. Well as a matter of fact you can’t. I won’t name names, but my wife and Mr. Huckabee had a bit of a fling a few years back; when he was fat. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t like this guy.

Christopher Dodd- We all know that Chris Dodd has been a Senator from Connecticut since 1981, and that he currently serves as Chairman of the Senate Banking Committee. We sing of his heroic victories over such skilled opponents as James Buckley and Gary Franks. We remember the baseless allegations levied by the Center for Public Integrity; allegations that made our blood boil. In short, we know Chris Dodd almost as well as we know ourselves. I think that, given his central position in our culture, we would be setting ourselves up for a grave disappointment by electing him President. We would foolishly risk destabilizing the intricate network of sign-systems and mythologies that we’ve built up around his persona. He already occupies an important space for our entire culture. I suggest we leave him there.

John McCain- Am I the only one who doesn’t get this guy? I know Hiltons aren’t that nice, but for everyone to think he was a hero for having to stay in one? I mean, what about the people who stay in Sheratons? Where’s the telethon for them? Plus, I’ve heard he’s been to prison. We don’t need that type of fellow as a President.

Now, there are actually a lot of other opponents. There dozens, in fact. There are parties I’ve never even heard of with no chance of ever finding representation. Just like you, I decided not to waste my time. Yours, Rich

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.

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!

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.

As required by Federal law, Anselmo has just released my 3Q campaign financials to the Federal Election Commission. They were on my desk this morning, and I almost soiled myself. Trying to become President is unbelievably expensive. I guess I knew that $150 million is a lot of money, but feels like a lot more when you write the checks. No worries, though. There is a bit of money coming in, so I’m not going to have to pay all of the expenses out of my pocket, but it’s still pretty impressive to see all of the expenses laid out all at once. Always eager to be selectively honest to my prospective constituents, I’ve decided to include an itemized list of my campaign expenditures (with a few comments) for your perusal.

Disbursements

• Travel
  • Blimp: $3,899,423.34
  • Hot Air Balloon: $24,389.00
  • Hot Air Balloon Fuel: $189.99

  then you’re going to have to send me a little change. In bills.

  • Awesome Dirt Bike: $8,400.00
  • Goddamn Taxis: $1,400.66
  • Stuckey’s: $8.42
• Meals
  • Surf and Turf: $6,483.88
  • Turf and Surf: $1,977.02
  • Tendercrisps: $483.23
  • Jagermeister: $850 (roughly)
  • Red Bull: $819.08
• Entertainment
  • Krumping Lessons: $1,400.00
  • Gentlemen’s Club: $72,000.78
• Weaponry and Defenses
  • Shaped Charges: $23,000.00
  • Chinese Stars: $85.99

Receipts

• Individuals
  • Rich White: $36,000,000.00
  • Anselmo BelGrande: $225.00
  • Cletus Merriwether III: $150,000.00
• Organizations
  • NAACP (a different one): $4,800.00
  • Westchester Junior League: $250,382.44
  • Illuminati: $800,000.00

Looking closely at this list, I’m starting to feel a bit discouraged. The only people who are giving any money to my Campaign are my friends and relatives. It’s like I’m a ten-year-old or something doing a walk-a-thon or selling some goddamn candy bars for my school. Jesus, people, don’t you guys want some change in this country? If so, you can return the favor in advance by sending some of your extra change this way. Thanks and Godspeed.

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.

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.

Good morning citizens. Well, I’ve been running for President now for a couple of weeks, and I’ve got to say: I like it. The food’s good, you get to see the country, and there’s always somebody around telling you how great they think you are. Needless to say, that kind of stuff is right up my alley. This is more than just a sweet-ass road trip, though; I’m here to win the presidency. And to win you need a strategy, which is something we talk a lot about here at Camp White. According to Anselmo, in order to really have a good shot at winning, you have to be involved with what is called a “political party.” Most candidates even link up with a party before running for President. There are actually quite a few of these parties out there, but there are only two that you really ever hear about: Democrats and Republicans. In the coming weeks, the Rich White campaign will implement strategies angling to secure the support of one of the organizations.

To be honest, I was confused when Anselmo first made it clear to me that this move was necessary. After all, everybody knows that “political parties” are just a contrivance created by the the media wing of the global corporate banking interests, the sole purpose of which is to divert the public’s attention through the pleasant irrelevance of sports-style conflict, while the individuals who really control things manufacture conflicts and solidify their iron grip on world civilization, all without the inconvenient fetters of public oversight and accountability. In fact, as Anselmo pointed out to me, everyone does not know this, and therefore puts great importance on party affiliation. In fact, before choosing a candidate voters will typically require that he be affiliated with their favorite party. If you’ve seen a football game (or the illiterate cretins who watch that sort of thing), then you know what I’m talking about.

First, let me tell you a bit about these Parties. The Democrats are mostly poor, well-educated, elderly, jewish, black lesbians who work as trial lawyers, and who spend their free time accepting free handouts and having anonymous sex with multiple partners. They are characterized by their fiscal sloppiness, marijuana addition, and tendency to complain and blame other people for their problems. In principle, they support an all-powerful central government that pays every American citizen to pursue mediocrity, letting everybody out of prison, the abolition of private property, and punishing terrorists by tickling and hugging them to death. They also advocate letting anyone who feels like it just mosey on over the border, which provides a source of cheap votes. They are very open-minded, provided that you agree with them, and they are staunch supporters of the Bill of Rights (except for the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, and 10th amendments).

The Republicans are completely different from the Democrats. Their constituents are primarily uneducated, affluent, white, male religious fanatics from rural areas who work in executive corporate positions, and who spend their free time randomly discharging weapons and passing judgment on things they are too intellectually lazy to understand. Republicans are characterized by their fiscal sloppiness, alcohol addiction, and tendency to complain and blame other people for their problems. In principle, they support an all-powerful central government that pays every American citizen to join the Army, putting everybody in prison, the privatization of the human soul, and punishing possible terrorists by blowing up the women and children that stand near them. They also advocate letting anyone who feels like it just mosey on over the border, which provides a source of cheap labor. They are very open-minded, provided that you agree with them, and they are staunch supporters of the Bill of Rights (except for the 1st, 4th, 5th, 6th, and 9th amendments).

Since the Democrats are a bunch of pushovers, I thought I’d try them first. I called Howard Dean, and told him what I was all about. He suggested we get together and chat, so we met at a Burger King at exit 48 near Proctorsville. Over a couple of Buffalo Tendercrisps, I explained that I was interested in becoming President, and that I hoped he could help make that happen. While he seemed interested, I couldn’t help but feel that he wasn’t giving me his full attention. He kept barking and chortling randomly, and suspect he has been stricken with Tourette’s. He asked me what I thought about the “issues.” I told him that I thought the same thing as him about the issues. “Be more specific,” he said, and I knew I was in trouble. I don’t really do specificity because I find it limiting. I explained this to Dean, but he didn’t respond. He was making a very low whining sound and spit bubbles were forming at the corners of his mouth. Suddenly he jumped up, a fire in his eyes and his fist pumping wildly. “Waah. YAAAHH!” And then he was gone. Needless to say, I was pissed. I bought that douche a Tendercrisp, and he didn’t even finish it.

Things didn’t go any better with Mike Duncan, the chairman of the Republican Party. His secretary kept putting my secretary off, so I had to come up with some other way to reach him. It just so happens that we’re both members of the same Gentleman’s Club, so I figured I’d just “bump into him” and schmooze a little. One evening, as I entered the club, I noticed him sitting in a corner. I grabbed two brandy’s from Clive, the barman, and approached Duncan with my offering. I introduced myself and offered him the glass. I started to explain what I was trying to do, but he seemed a little annoyed. Eventually, he told me to leave him alone and that he would talk to me later about it. I hoped he would come talk to me after the lapdance, but he just kept paying for more songs. I took the hint.

Out of desperation, I tried to call the Libertarians, but it seems their phone had been disconnected. I emailed them, but the dude who called me back sounded stoned. I pretended I was losing cell reception, and then hung up on him. I wasn’t too into that route anyway. They are pretty insignificant and besides, their preoccupation with freedom makes me uneasy. People tend to do whatever they want when you give them freedom. I didn’t even bother calling the Communists, since they’re just Democrats with an unpopular name. The Anarchists sounded good, but they don’t tend to run for office, so SOL on that one. My only shot at success, it seems, was to link up with the big boys, and they didn’t seem to want anything to do with me.

Needless to say, I was pretty down at this point. But then Anselmo told me a little story about the architect of the bloodiest war in American History, Abraham Lincoln. We all know that he was considered one of the ugliest presidents in history, but he wasn’t always as successful as he was in his later life. It seems that, before he was elected president, he met with a few challenges. First, his business failed when it turned out that nobody wanted to buy stupid tiny notched logs. Then he lost eight different elections for various positions, including the post of Neighborhood Association Historian. On top of everything, he was a convicted rapist. At first, I didn’t realize what Anselmo was getting at. Then I looked into the deep black pools of his eyes, and from them I drew an inexplicable strength. I will not and can not give up. I take heart in the knowledge that the primaries are a good nine months away, allowing me plenty of time to wrangle up a party affiliation. Like Lincoln, I too will eventually reach my goal through dogged perseverance, although I will not have my head blown off by an actor (I’ve got my eye on you Clooney).