Tonight, we made history. The people of this state have spoken and you have declared me, in no uncertain terms, the winner of your presidential primary. You know, I’ve spent the past eighteen months in this state, visiting every hamlet, every community, getting to know you—and now that you’ve completed your crucial role in the electoral process, finally, I can tell you what I really think.
This place sucks.
From Dullard’s Ridge to Bunghole Marsh, this wretched, foul excuse of a state has made me forget why I even want to live in this country, let alone run for political office. I’ve spent time in your backwards towns, at your obesity-infected county fairs, and on your syringe-covered beaches. And never once did someone offer to valet my car. You’re cave people, I’m telling you.
I’ve toured what I would call medium-security prisons, but you call your finest schools, meeting your most book-learned citizens, with as many as two and a half years of education, pretending to teach the monsters you call your children. I’ve eaten your local specialties, which, I promise you, aren’t that special. You can’t cover your garbage with a crust, call it a pie, and feed it to unsuspecting political candidates. And, really, couldn’t there be one restaurant in this entire state that serves a good pomegranate molasses glazed duck breast? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
I’ve shaken hands so hairy they looked like feet, and feet so diseased I wanted to immerse myself in a luxury garden tub filled with Purell—but of course all you have here is generic hand sanitizer and tiny bathtub/shower combos that don’t even have Whirlpool jets. I’ve been forced to smile while holding your devil babies, diapers overflowing with vile liquids only found here, and noxious foams spewing from their every orifice. I’ve seen creatures no man should ever have to see—and that was in something that was calling itself a Sheraton. Have you no state licensing authority that demands some sort of minimum standards from your places of accommodation?
I appreciate that my message—a message, I want to be very clear, that was designed to appeal only to true Neanderthals—resonated so well here, and that your people and half-people rallied with such fervor on my behalf, but, seriously, it frightens me for the future of this planet that a place without its own premium vodka bar constructed entirely from ice is still able to exist. I tried repeatedly to leave, of course, but with your roads paved with, I don’t know, something other than gold, and your signs written in a mysterious patois that fails to follow the rules of aristocratic linguistic structure, I didn’t even know how to escape.
To be honest, I’m not even sure how you managed to vote. Perhaps my victory is a fluke, based on the random chance that more of you inadvertently hit the lever next to my name than any other. That might explain the repulsive beings who call themselves your local legislators, many of whom I was thoroughly sickened to accept endorsements from. I did it, though. On behalf of the people from the far more civilized corners of this country, and on behalf of myself, and the raw and unfettered ambition that kept me staying in a hellhole like this, where your water is unbottled—I hope some of you have noticed this—and your wireless internet is beyond spotty. Shameful.
And so, with this nightmare chapter of my life behind me, I move on to another region that I will pretend to have warm feelings for—a place that can’t possibly be more rank and fetid than this one, you horrifying mutants who sleep on polyester pillows.
Sorry, my campaign manager just passed me a note.
It seems that I’ve forgotten that you are also able to vote in the general election this fall.
In which case, I take back everything I’ve said, thank you for your support, and urge you to continue to follow my campaign as we move forward in this race. I appreciate your vote of confidence tonight, and wish you all the best in the future. Unless a disaster wipes you off the face of the Earth, in which case, we’ll all be better off. Good night.