Since I announced my intention to brood, meditate, mull and otherwise noodle around a potential, possible, maybe, sorta run for the Republican presidential nomination, the response from you, gentle readers, has been overwhelming, encouraging me to think, ponder and otherwise dawdle to the point of paralyzing inertia even more.
Of course, I took that as a mandate to: a) waste even more time on a crusade of capriciousness and/or b) milk this shtick for at least one more column. How's that for rank political opportunism?
Besides, how could I not? After all, my mail as been groaning under the weight of at least 25 or 30 supporters, including one lovely reader who even offered to write a campaign song.
"Slap-Happy Daze Are Beer Again"?
I've had volunteers who wanted to serve as my running mate. And yes, the organization received a huge boost with a $1,000 political contribution. Unfortunately, it was in the form of a fake reproduction of Confederate currency. At least they spent 49 cents on a postage stamp.
Gracie, my goldendoodle, who has been promoted from stump minion to campaign manager, will be in touch with all of you after she wakes up.
As you know, my decision to begin deciding about ruminating to initiate contemplating an intensive period of wonderment toward a presidential run was inspired by looking out upon the current crop of aspirants for the highest post in the land and concluding this isn't a serious group of contenders for commander in chief. It's a Potomac version of Hollywood Squares, without the seriousness of purpose of Carrot Top.
Mitt Romney, whose warranty expired in 2012? Jeb Bush, who if his name was John Ellis Shropshire would be peddling South Florida time-shares? Sen. Marco Rubio, the kid who always tattled on you back in grade school? Mike Huckabee, who thinks Beyonce is Salome? Ted Cruz, the U.S. Senate's Amway salesman? Donald Trump, the Howdy Doody of the tea party?
Thus, the epiphany of: "Well, why not me?" No doubt the same realization has dawned upon you, too. And that's even before the start of the cocktail hour.
Given the poisoned well of political discourse in this country, I fully anticipate a vicious opposition research assault. After more than 40 years in the scribbling racket, no doubt I have loaded the gun to be aimed in my direction. And thus decades of typos, dangled participles, split infinitives and misplaced modifiers will all be dredged up, not to mention prior columns where I predicted Roseanne would be a monumental flop, or the Cubs were a lock to win the 1984 World Series, or there was no way a candidate who had taken the Fifth Amendment 75 times in a deposition and looked like a Conehead could get elected (much less re-elected) governor of Florida. Oooops.
Spend your days with Hayes
Subscribe to our free Stephinitely newsletter
You’re all signed up!
Want more of our free, weekly newsletters in your inbox? Let’s get started.
Explore all your optionsSome of you have asked what my campaign strategy will look like on the road to the White House (really). I'm still working on that, although I have assigned Gracie, who has just been promoted to chief of staff, to research the pressing issues of the day. She'll get right on it after she finishes barking at leaves falling on the driveway.
For my part, I've been studying Apocalypse Now, The Shining, Blue Velvet and Joan Crawford's biography for tips on how to be certifiably loopy on the Republican primary debate circuit.
I figure if I show up on the stump decked out like George Washington, demand a return to the pelt standard, call for an electrified 300-foot-tall border fence (land mines optional) and the repeal of Obamacare in favor of a universal national health care system providing free Vaseline petroleum jelly for every true American, I'm at least halfway up Pennsylvania Avenue.
Very soon I plan to barnstorm the country in a "Give 'em Hell, Doodle," campaign, or as it might also be known: "Travels With Gracie — 2016," as soon as the hound learns how to drive. This might take a while, inasmuch as she only recently figured out at age 9 how to shake.
The advertising campaign also is shaping up. I already have a spot in mind of myself and the Bombshell of the Balkans walking hand-in-hand, Gracie in tow straining on her leash to chase a laughing squirrel, as the stentorian voiceover authoritatively intones: "It could be worse; one of those other guys might win. Paid for by the Committee of People Who Were Either Gullible and/or Despondent Enough to Send Us Check."
My running mate, who is getting into the garbage, and I thank you for your support.