Brain Wreck

Those of you who have been reading this drivel lofty tome are aware of the fact that I am now a legitimate write-in candidate for U.S. President, U.S. Senate, or the U.S, House of Representatives. As such, I think it only fitting that I tell you about my history as a highly decorated military hero.

The whole episode leading to my act(s) of heroism began during the tumultuous reign of a certain Mr. T. When this certain Mr. T was sitting in the White House (not the one in my neighborhood described in “Money Tips from Edgar Allan Poe”), it seems that he, Mr. T, received a state visit from a fellow named Pierre Trudeau who at that time was purported to be the Prime Minister of the frozen wasteland to the north of the U.S. that the residents of the place refer to as “Canada.”

According to news sources, Mr. T and Trudeau spent a nice couple of days together. They repeatedly chowed down on Big Macs, ogled each other’s wives, made rude and lewd comments about the respective spouses, and then they headed out to one of Mr. T’s overpriced, stuffy, and totally pretentious, as befitted Mr. T’s lofty status, golf courses, where they prepared to play a round of golf while accompanied by sharpshooters, sycophants, and three middle-aged Chinese exchange students of unknown origin. It seemed, at least on the surface, that everything was going, according to Mr. T, better than any state visit had ever gone in the entire history of the world. But alas, the overpriced, stuffy, and totally pretentious golf course was where it all began to fall apart. Apparently, Mr. T, while claiming to be club champion, insisted before the match began that Trudeau be penalized 52 strokes (one for each state in the union) for speaking “Canadian” on the course, wearing snow boots with attached golf spikes, using a dog sled instead of a golf cart, guzzling La Vino De La Moose instead of beer or diet coke, which Mr. T considered to be un-American, and not renouncing his “Canadian” citizenship and conceding the match to Mr. T at the first tee box. Then, much to Mr. T’s dismay, and despite his penalty of 52 strokes, Pierre Trudeau easily defeated Mr. T by a wide margin. Mr. T, in an absolute fit of rage, loudly declared himself the winner, and then he immediately went on his favorite news program, with Sharpie marker score card as proof of victory in hand, and again declared himself the winner and the greatest golfer in the history of the game. He then declared Trudeau to be a horrible cheater who rigged the match and committed the greatest act of golf fraud ever known to mankind.

Things quickly went downhill from there. Trudeau, of course, was deeply offended. According to witnesses, Trudeau and Mr. T later got into a shouting match in the oval office, with Mr. T quickly calling for a delay in the argument while he demanded a special master and interpreter to oversee and review Trudeau’s remarks which were all being made in “Canadian.” Mr. T and his lawyers then demanded that Trudeau cease and desist with his remarks, stop speaking “Canadian,” make his spouse available for a private oval office conference, and give Mr. T’s wife, Lemonjello (pronounced La mahn shallow), all his shares in “Canada.” Mr. T also immediately filed a massive lawsuit against Trudeau and the so-called territory of “Canada” for defamation and the onset of pain and suffering from heel spurs that were caused by their round of golf.

After that, as witnesses later reported, the two of them got into an even more heated discussion about the history of the U.S. and “Canada.” Trudeau, it was later reported at the committee hearings, repeatedly pointed out to Mr. T that he, Mr. T, was abysmally ignorant of the history of the U.S. and how government actually works and just about everything else known to man except how to scam people on a massive scale and cheat at golf and, apparently, everything else in which he was even remotely involved.

Mr. T immediately enlisted the aid of his lawyer, Rudy Giniani or something like that, to file another lawsuit against Trudeau and “Canada” for calling him abysmally ignorant. Rudy proceeded to file the suit, misspelled “abysmally” and “ignorant”, and requested $250 million in damages and a lifetime supply of Canadian whiskey, which was, according to actuarial tables, approximately 87 semi-loads.

After the initial exchange of pleasantries, according to later sworn testimony, Mr. T’s response to Trudeau was, “Oh yeah! Well, you guys burned down the White House (again, not the one in my neighborhood) during that war…uh, a long time ago. Uh, you remember that war where John Wayne was fighting off the “Canadians” at the Alamo! It was a perfect war.  Which reminds me of a dear friend of mine, Jahan Wahane, you know, the big Indian cowboy movie star. Huge in New Delhi! One of the biggest stars in the world. Personal friend. Loves me. All the Indians love me. I’ve done more for the Indians than that Gandy guy or Geronimo or anybody else ever!

According to the 30 witnesses present at this exchange, Trudeau then rolled his eyes and repeated his claim of abysmal ignorance. He then said, in “Canadian,” “You sir, are a complete moron! It was the War of 1812. The British burned the White House (again, not the one in my neighborhood), and Canada didn’t yet exist as a country. Also, your wife, Lemonjello or whatever, and her whole family are illegal immigrants. Ya’ gonna’ build a wall to keep out all the Slobeanieweenians?” At this point, Mr. T began to foam at the mouth and threw six cans of diet coke at Mr. Trudeau, who made a hasty exit to escape the rage.

After Trudeau’s exit, Mr. T consulted with his inner circle and then made several since deleted phone calls. The most incriminating call was made to the Proud Oath Knuckle Draggers Militia commandant at Camp Unibrow, Louisiana, wherein Mr. T instructed him to pick the absolutely dumbest guys in the camp for a secret mission. Mr. T requested only those who were too stupid to retain any information or testify against him at a later date. He also demanded that they all pledge absolute loyalty to him, and never, ever reveal their mission or testify to Congress upon penalty of death or being horribly mocked on social media.

Mr. T had concocted a plan to secretly invade the capitol of “Canada” and burn Trudeau’s residence to the ground as retribution for the burning of the White House (you know, not the one in my neighborhood), during the war with Mexico or Finland or somebody. Nobody in the inner circle was sure of which war. They did eliminate Vietnam as a suspect. Upon further consultation with these same folks, the consensus opinion was that the capitol of “Canada” was obviously located in Skagbreath, Saskatchewan.

As fate would have it, it just so happened that I was in a small town in Montana when the Knuckle Draggers Militia showed up. They had all kinds of weapons and uniforms and military gear, and they all looked totally bewildered. I was in my official capacity as a write-in candidate for President of the U.S., and I was scheduled to speak at my rally in Possumpiss, Montana. Possumpiss is an old Lakota word for marsupial urine, but Possumpiss rolls off the tongue a bit easier. So, to honor the original residents of Possumpiss, the take-over residents voted not to rename the town Marsupial Urine and stick with Possumpiss. This was partly due to the fact that nobody was sure of how to spell marsupial. Some of the early settlers of Possumpiss were ancestors of Rudy Giniani, the lawyer guy. Possumpiss, Montana, by the way, is right next to the Canadian border. It’s a very small place, and it’s hard to miss a large, heavily armed group of rather backwards looking, weirdly dressed, military type guys asking for directions at an Esso station where I happened to be filling up the old Yugo campaign wagon. As a candidate for office diligently seeking votes from all sources and wearing an official boy scout uniform I purchased at Goodwill because it added to my militaristic bearing, I was only too eager to help out these befuddled, quasi-military looking young men with directions and possibly the opportunity to teach them how to vote, although with this bunch that looked like a long shot at best. Anyway, I inquired as to why they were looking for the town of Skagbreath, and after they voluntarily, eagerly, and very proudly described their top-secret mission to me, I quickly realized that this was my opportunity to become a genuine Canadian hero.

I think I should tell you that I never travel anywhere without my trusty Rand-McNally Atlas of North, Central, and South America. I sometimes campaign in weird places, and I get lost a lot more than I would care to admit. Sometimes, especially after post-campaign events, I get really lost. Anyway, with my rapier-like mental faculties purring like a well-oiled…uh, rapier, I guess, I quickly pulled out the old Rand-McNally and pointed out to the officer in charge, Sergeant Orville G. Largent, the highway that would take him and his troops to Skagbreath, Saskatchewan, except I actually pointed out, in a flash of absolute brilliance that I now frequently refer to in my stump speech, the SOUTHERN route, and I explained to him that in the “Canadian” language Skagbreath, Saskatchewan, was actually known as and marked on the map as Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Sgt. Largent expressed his gratitude for my help and quickly headed the convoy toward the southern route I had so brilliantly pointed out to him. I also told him that he would know when he reached the Canadian border because the border guards always greeted people with phrases in the “Canadian” language like Buenos Dias, Donde Los Banos, Uno Mas Cervesa Fria, and other traditional greetings.

The real kicker to all this was the top-secret report that Sgt. Orville G. (for Gnumbgnuts) Largent submitted to Mr. T and his advisors at the White House, (Yeah, not that one.) Orville G. reported that the troops were quite surprised to report that the beaches at Skagbreath were beautiful and covered with gorgeous young ladies from all over the world who were mostly clad in very skimpy bikinis. Illegal substances were also reported as being cheap and plentiful. Sgt. Largent further reported that after many repeated inquiries, nobody seemed to know where the capitol building was located or where Pierre Trudeau lived or who he was. However, the troops, mostly dim-witted, hormonally challenged, easily influenced young men in their early twenties or thereabout, had all decided to enlist in the “Canadian” army and stay on a permanent basis in Skagbreath, where the weather was always warm, the women very beautiful, the party favors plentiful, and the main duties of the “Canadian” army seemed to be taking siestas.

Mr. T, who was apoplectic at the news, immediately filed lawsuits against all the troops, the “Canadian” army, all bikini manufacturers, drug dealers, weather persons, and taco stand owners.

For my heroic efforts, Canada, the real one, awarded me the Prime Ministerial Medal of Freedom. Pierre Trudeau himself, in a beautiful and elaborate ceremony, hung it around my neck, pronounced me a true-blue Canadian hero, and said that my quick-witted thinking and subsequent actions saved the nation of Canada. The medal is really shiny, and it looks like a genuine Riders In The Sky Sheriff’s badge!

Please remember my heroism when you go to the polls and write in my name for President, Senator, or U.S. Representative. Also, if you would like a “Vote For Me” campaign t-shirt or commemorative underwear featuring my self-portrait, which for the original I have been offered a princely sum from the Kankakee, Illinois, Kiwanis Club, please send $392.14 and a self-addressed, stamped mailer to “Me For President.” The post office knows where I am. Or just ask any Canadian. Trudeau will forward my mail.