I Am Running For President On The Counter-Cuckoo Platform

My fellow Americans, I may be out of touch, except with my friends in the banking industry. And I may be dishonest, which I’m honest enough to admit. However, the citizenry of this divided country can rest assured that I am decidedly not a whirling-bat-diarrhea bonkers individual.

I do not scream obscenities at my shower curtain. I never pull out hypodermic needles during important meetings and proceed to stab people in the neck with them. When I open my mouth to speak, I do not begin vomiting half-digested tree frogs all over the podium.

The electorate of our great nation is not a vast, seething swarm of rabid chipmunks, and so they can understand this. They are ready to vote for someone like me—someone who does not hear voices that urge him to run through a banquet hall buck-naked, yanking tablecloths, shattering wine glasses and knocking plates of duck confit to the floor.  

It has been well documented that I do not hoard jars of my own feces in my bedroom closet. I do not clip my toenails in the middle of yoga class. The record shows that I do not pitch my tent, build a campfire and unfurl my sleeping bag in the middle of the auditorium, nor do I jump up onto the stage and start hip-checking the opera singers.

Folks, when I decided to run for president, it might not have been because I wanted to help improve the welfare of the populous, but it was also not because I believe that I am carrying out the orders of a four-headed giant electric blue squid from the Ursalaba galaxy. And I do not believe the presidency of the U.S.A. to be merely a steppingstone to a job in the God administration, or a means of gaining unfettered access to all the Jell-O in Fort Knox.

The reason why I am running for president is not the issue. The issue is that I do not participate in seances with aardvarks. I do not pal-around with a platypus. And, crucially, I do not lovingly stroke and whisper to an imaginary dodo bird perched on my shoulder.

Let me be clear: I do not pepper-spray myself. And I do not hump other people’s furniture.

I certainly do not come to cocktail parties wearing a speedo and suspenders, with a frizzy pink wig on my head. Furthermore, I have never adhered to a diet that consists only of live arachnids and grape-flavored Fanta.

America, you can count on me to restore decency to the White House by refraining from overturning rank tubs of effluent onto the carpet and then rolling around in the mess on my back, clawing wildly at the air. My un-hysterical patriotism will prevent me from tying the flag around my neck, pretending that it is a superhero cape and romping around the Rose Garden. My cabinet will not be a place where I keep bees. I will command the respect of other nations by failing to mistake the world stage for a masturbation booth at a peep show.

What you ultimately need to decide, voters, is whether or not you would like to elect a president who does not believe that the Almighty chose him, and only him, to gobble handfuls of thumbtacks and pee into the punchbowl.  

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