Thoughts On My Failed Election Bid

I promised you wealth. I promised you prosperity. I promised you a healthy steed in every driveway and a nice roasted baby on the table each Thanksgiving Day--I realize now, this is where I may have gone wrong. My typist was supposed to type “turkey” but, a few scotch and sevens later, “turkey” turned to “baby” and my loyal constituency thinned. I can’t rightly blame you. I mean, who wants to eat a baby on Thanksgiving? That’s weird.
    Under my leadership, you would only have eaten baby under the most dire of circumstances. Or on “National Baby Eating Day” (a holiday that you won’t enjoy under my opponent Ron Summers). I tried to explain this to my typist the dingbat, but she was probably preoccupied by thoughts of which mascara to buy or something. Women--am I right? Okay, so maybe my stupid dingbat typist cost me the election.
    Or maybe it was that some were turned off by my idea of personally checking all the “sexy women” of the town for breast cancer. Words like “pervert” and “miscreant” were thrown around like baby carcasses on “National Baby Eating Day,” so, Oh, I’m so sorry, I care about women’s health--excuuuussse me! Do you see Ron Summers taking such initiative in matters of women’s health? Hell. No. Because that guy sucks, his wife is chubby and I’m pretty sure he’s a pervert and a miscreant.
    Or maybe my loss was the result of a so-called “sex tape” which depicted “me” making love to a tube of so-called “Gogurt.” But when have matters between a man and a portable dairy product been of any relevance to anyone but the man, the portable dairy product, the refrigerator and my friend Rod’s camera?
    “Oh,” you might be asking yourself, “but what about that thing with the spray paint?”
    Yes, fine citizen, I have an answer for that too, and it goes something like this: shut your fat face. Why I broke into that hardware store is my own business. Maybe I thought there were some terrorists in the metallic spray paint aisle. Maybe, after locating them in that aisle, they forced me to spray some of that spray paint into a sock and sniff it, so I could never identify them--a tactic that obviously worked because, honestly, I couldn’t describe them to you today.
    But believe you me, they were totally there, as sure as my no-age-of-consent policy would have freed oppressed lovers forever.
    Then, maybe it wasn’t my shortcomings that led to my loss, but Ron Winters’ prowess. I find that hard to believe. Ron Summers is a loser, and I know this because I went to high school with him. He tried out for basketball in the ninth grade and got cut on the first day! Then, the next week, his girlfriend Sally French broke up with him in the lunchroom--Haha! And did you see what he wore to the City Park opening? An orange shirt with a red cap. What an asshole.
    Well congratulations, townspeople, because that’s your new mayor. A guy who can’t even make the freshman basketball team, a guy whose wife is a chub-monster, a guy who (probably) suffers from erectile dysfunction. Good job, guys.  Sweet.