St. Fakename, Esq. eats Cuban food, thousands dead. Film at eleven.

Have you ever been out in public when you suddenly become aware that your pants are completely soaked and you think to yourself, “Please God, let it just be urine.”  Hey, that’s what happens when you eat so many burritos that your ass becomes a card-carrying member of OPEC. 

No, really!  My ass is the meteorological equivalent of Old Faithful.  Every 22 minutes, I single-handedly produce a “weather event” so funky, James Brown himself once stopped mainlining smack to put a “Please Don’t Feed the White Man” sign on my lawn.  Open flame is not allowed within 500 yards of my ass per order of the Geneva Convention.  My ass is so highly regarded among weathermen that I get to name the next hurricane.

Well, Rob’s campaign is in full swing.  Or as full swing as it can get until we actually get off the couch.  We’ll begin to take our message to the streets this month.  Rob is going to personally visit each and every bar East of the Rio Grande.  I, on the other hand, will be visiting the region’s strip clubs and casinos.  And, for reasons I don’t understand, I will be dressed as a very openly gay Tarzan.  Rob swears this will generate substantial interest in his campaign and has absolutely nothing to do with the disparaging remarks I made recently about his failure to secure a “First Babe.” 

Sit back and watch the slow, inevitable demise of a political machine built around a man who refuses to shower unless he can smell himself and who pours bourbon into his breakfast cereal to get his “recommended daily allowance of vitamin JD.”

Even Ken MacDonald wanted to pitch in. However, we had to decline Ken’s kind offer to “have the frontrunners suffer an unfortunate and completely untraceable accident.”  After all, our grassroots movement was based on integrity and an honest-to-goodness desire to improve the moral condition of the country.  And while we feel that violence is an acceptable and efficient solution to life’s nagging little problems in movies, video games, international espionage, and the National Hockey League, we simply could not condone that type of goonism in the political arena.  Not yet, anyway. 

In an effort to make this campaign more interactive than any other campaign outside of Northern Ireland, South America, and most of the Middle East, we are offering you this historic opportunity to have a say in the official slogan of this Reuter 2000 juggernaut.  Because we care about including you, the politically disenfranchised voter, in the election process.  And because we’re so strung out on whippets that the theme song from Charles in Charge sounds like a really great slogan right about now. 

Here are the top five slogans we could think of this morning at Denny's:

1. He’s one big fat-assed bastard.

2. Bigger breasts for a better America.

3. Most days he doesn’t get around to putting on pants.

4. He’s never tasted cocaine but is willing to try!

5. Bring him your young, virgin daughters. Unless, of course, they’re fat.

All you have to do is pick the one you like and e-mail us with your choice here at mail@theamericanjerk.com.  That way you can impress your friends by telling them that you had a hand in picking the slogan for the candidate who maced John McCain’s wife on national television during the…oh but I’ve said too much.

But Paul, you might be saying, what if I have an even better slogan than the ones you guys came up with?  What if I had a slogan so powerful, it could have even gotten Gary Bauer elected?  Well, in that case, I’d have to say that you have horribly underestimated the sheer, undeniable Suck Power that is Gary Bauer.  

If you still think your slogan can get Rob elected or even just laid, send it along to us.  If we like it enough, we’ll use it, copyright it under our names, and send you an e-mail asking where Ken MacDonald can find you to give you “that thing you’ve got comin’ to you.”  Please try to have your teeth already kicked in and scattered on the floor by the time Mr. MacDonald arrives, as he can be out of a bar only so long before his powers of covert debauchery diminish. 

But seriously, if you have a fantastic idea for a slogan, feel free to send it to us at mail@theamericanjerk.com.  If we decide to use it, we’ll even send you a couple hundred “Reuter 2000” bumper stickers!  (Provided, of course, that you pay for them.)  And if, God forbid, all the regular candidates were to die in some bizarre and completely unforeseeable accident involving Marty McSorely, a tanning salon, and a truckload of diabetic penguins, clearing the way for a landslide Reuter victory in November, then we’ll even appoint you to a cabinet post!  (Provided that you have ready access to hookers with a striking resemblance to Meg Ryan and extensive experience handling chloroform.) 

So vote for your favorite slogan today!  Then sit back and enjoy the gripping political drama that is “Reuter 2000”!  Or, if you prefer, sit back and watch the slow, inevitable demise of a political machine built around a man who refuses to shower unless he can smell himself and who pours bourbon into his breakfast cereal to get his “recommended daily allowance of vitamin JD.” 

Or you can be like me and my flatulent ass, just waiting for that first hurricane to roll in off the Atlantic.  I’ve even got the name all picked out.  And let me tell you, folks, I predict that “Big Daddy Love Monkey” is going to be one helluva hurricane.  I’m really looking forward to that point in early summer when the Channel 7 weatherbabe utters those magic words I’ve waited my whole life to hear:  “It looks like ‘Big Daddy’ is using that big, honkin’ Caribbean dick of his to fuck up all the property owners on Bermuda.  Lube it up good, you tourist-gouging island swine, because this hurricane is drunk and horny.