The Rich White Weblog

Police Action II: Operation “Jungle Payback”

admin — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 00:07:29 +0000

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!

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Going Negative

admin — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 17:44:09 +0000

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

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Change in New Hampshire

admin — Fri, 11 Jan 2008 05:10:28 +0000

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.

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Skipping the Iowa Caucus

admin — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 04:13:29 +0000

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.

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Welcome Back Wolf!

admin — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 05:34:30 +0000

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.

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The Hearty Robustness of a Chesterfield.

admin — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 06:01:47 +0000

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!

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New Blood

admin — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 06:41:05 +0000

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!

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Romance on the Campaign Trail

admin — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 16:36:55 +0000

As something of a celebrity these days, I get my share of surreptitious winks. Not an event passes by that Anselmo does not greet me afterward with a musky pocketful of the dainty underthings handed to him en masse by the hopeful ladies in the poon lagoon. The “poon lagoon,” by the way, is political jargon for the area to the bottom right of the podium where the loose women congregate. Some of the more senior politicos, incumbent Senators mainly, also have “wranglers,” who cruise the pit for choice cuts to be brought back to the bus. I’m not into that, though. My only mistress is America, and she’s the only one I’m thinking about screwing these days.

The other day, though, temptation reared it’s ugly head. I was attending one of those exhausting dinners with celebrities and dancing, and Anselmo and I were standing in a corner talking shop when I noticed a commotion to my left. A car had pulled up and a woman was stepping out into a cluster of paparazzi. She was tall, willowy, and had the lean, limber legs of a newborn foal. A shimmering curtain of yellow hair framed an elegantly carved face, wrought of purest alabaster. The magnetism and warmth that filled the air was unmistakable; Ann Coulter had arrived, and her grace and poise were even more intoxicating in person than they are in her television appearances and books. She glanced my way, her eyes lingering for an instant, and then she moved off into the throng of adoration.

I thought nothing of it. There are always a lot of beautiful people at these things, so I quickly put the near-encounter out of my mind and continued talking with Anselmo about this thing that recently appeared on my balls. After a while, though, it came time to take our seats for dinner, and I frantically searched the forest of tables to find the place card with my name on it. When I finally found it, I was chagrined to discover that Anselmo was seated elsewhere, and we said our goodbyes. I was the first to sit down at the table, so I took out my Blackberry and pretended to use it. I was deeply engrossed in my wallpaper when I heard a sweet, carefree voice behind me whisper “pardon me, you filthy asshole.” I turned and looked into the sparkling eyes of a face I recognized: it was Ann. She looked away, coyly. “It’s just… that’s my chair.”

I looked at the place card to my right, noticing her name in pearlescent lavender script. “Of course,” I stammered, feeling my cheeks redden as I moved my chair to let her by. She sat down calmly and arranged her things. It felt as if the temperature of the ballroom had increased by a good ten degrees, but after an endless minute or two a few other people showed up to fill up the empty spots at the table. Introductions went around, and by the time service began, we had begun to converse as friends.

It quickly became clear that Ann was the shining star of the table. Everyone within earshot hung on her every word, and the men blushed beneath her gaze. Her raw charisma was impressive, a charming mix of bubbly vivaciousness and sly wit. She could go on about almost any subject, from Liberal Bedwetters to Godless Pinkos, and when she referred to the 9/11 widows as “dead-husband skank-hookers,” our raucous laughter brought more than a few envious glances from the surrounding tables. I don’t know if it was the wine or the throaty anti-Semitism that danced from Ann’s lips, but an unmistakable feeling of good cheer had taken hold of all of us.

When entree service came, things got exciting. While placing Ann’s fish in front of her, the waiter (probably distracted by her radiance) accidentally knocked her water glass over with the plate, spilling a few ice cubes onto the tablecloth. Ann handled the situation with her characteristic aplomb and without missing a beat. She leaned over to the waiter, smiled sweetly, and spit a greasy wad of mucus into his terrified face. She reached one slender hand up, gently crushed his testicles and hissed: “What do you think you’re doing you terrorist son of a bitch.”

The waiter, who was wearing a red turban, stammered, “but ma’am, I’m no terrorist. I’m a Sikh.”

“Well go seek me some fucking tartar sauce then,” she purred, her teeth bared in a girlish rictus. We couldn’t help but giggle, the potentially awkward situation being so adroitly defused.

After dessert, Ann rose abruptly, casting a casual glance over her shoulder at me before disappearing into the crowd. In a way I was relieved, as I had begun to notice the other men at the table smiling at her, and had begun to feel strangely jealous of this attention. I waited a few minutes before I excused myself and hurried to catch her. I found her on the Terrace, looking out over the city. She was shivering, so I approached and placed my jacket over he shoulders. She turned towards me, and looked into my eyes, and for the first time I sensed a vulnerability in her. Vulnerability gives me a huge boner, so I moved in. As my arms encircled her, she broke free and turned her back to me. “I can’t,” she said, “no matter how much I might want to.”

I was confused. “Why must we fight these feelings?” I pleaded.

“My first love is Jesus,” she said, “and I must remain ever faithful to him.” An unbreakable resolve was clearly building within her. I should have figured that she was so into Christ. After all, she acts just like him. I began to get desperate.

“But Ann; these desires, they’re natural. We’re just animals, after all.” Then I quoted a few lines from that Bloodhound Gang song. Wrong move number one. Her tone uncharacteristically icy, she explained to me that God had created the world in 7 days and then had made man on the 7th day and woman from his rib. The Earth it seems, is only 6,000 or so years old.

Needless to say, I was a bit taken aback by these assertions. “Are you some kind of dingbat?” I asked, “what about the dinosaurs?” Wrong move number two. A foot long jet of blue fire sprayed from her eyes, and blood began to leak from her ears. She issued forth a great shriek, causing the windows facing us to disintegrate. She began clawing furiously at my face, trying to get my eyes. I curled up into a ball at her feet, hoping help would arrive before I succumbed to her assault. Suddenly, with a great whooshing sound, the Hot Air Express descended from nowhere with Anselmo at the helm. Wolf dropped from the basket onto the terrace at Ann’s back. As she whirled to confront him, I took advantage of the distraction to climb up the rope to safety.

Once in the basket, Anselmo applied full throttle to the balloon, and we shot into the sky. “But what about Wolf?” I asked, slightly concerned.

“He is brave and strong,” replied Anselmo, “he will survive.” As we rose into the night we gradually lost sight of the bright green flashes of light that marked the battle on the terrace, and Anselmo tenderly cleaned and dressed my wounds. I was floored by Ann’s behavior. Who could have guessed that she was capable of such a severe personality change. I thought cheating on my wife would be easier than this.

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Cleaning Up My Language

admin — Mon, 08 Oct 2007 05:26:53 +0000

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.

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The Numbers are In!

admin — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 17:42:51 +0000

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
- 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.

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