Thankfully, I remain in good spirits with a sharpened shank, ready to bury it in dimwits who cross the line with naively crafted insults. Above all, I still manage to throw around the occasional joke, yet at this point all the laughter seems merciful. Roxie tells me I need to relax.
But how can I relax, knowing that our country is on an unpredictable path that leads to... what exactly? To cheer me up, Roxie recently trimmed my mop of hair, and she definitely would’ve made me look great when meeting foreign dignitaries. Still stuck in the groove of campaigning, I met with Ronda, who would’ve been my nominee for Secretary of the Treasury. A graduate of Northwestern, she has studied the intricacies of our fragile economy, recently telling soon to retire Tom Florence of
Most people could never excuse such an action, clinging to a belief system outdated by modern standards. Some people are just batty. During the final stretch of my campaign, I horrifically faced a brush with death I wish on no one. While campaigning in Holmby Hills, an irate banshee began hurling barbs with bitterness, a reaction worthy of an extended stay at the local rubber room. I escaped with my life, as did Scarlett O’Connell, and my trail of fire left from exhaust led to heavenly results. My First Lady recovered well from the ensuing drama.
Sebastian Santiago, who would’ve been my nominee for Secretary of the Interior, suggested that all voters should be required to write in the name of who they want for president. If a person can’t write legibly or at all, then how can you say they have "keen faculties or sound mind?"
A scraggly monkey can fill in a circle. I was noticeably brokenhearted by the outcome of the election, so he supportively reminded me of all the meaningful endorsements I received during the tough campaign. Nobody will ever forget when I gained the endorsement of the National Gothic Movement.
Her good humor was encouraging. To wind down from the heavy campaigning, I met who would’ve been my Chief of Staff, the ultimate pop-off Ridge Thorneway. He maintains that never straying from objectivity is part of being a Basher. I told Ridge that the tanking economy makes it hard to remain objective. He empathized with that observation, then stated bluntly, “These hard times lead to heavy drinking.”
That night it did. Ridge later warned that you should never make fun of a drunken bar patron, the even one whose earlier judgment wavered on recklessness crossed with self-destructive blather. Now, as a has-been presidential candidate, I’m stuck making fun of passed out bar patrons at