Dear Readers of the American Voting Populace,
We have come to a momentous moment in our nation's national history. As you well recall, just four short years ago I ascended the throne of the Presidency—a long, strange trip for a mulatto boy from the rough-and-tumbled streets of Kettering, Ohio, raised by two single parents, 15,000 faceless, black-robbed minions, and a mentally deficient felonious uncle. Likewise, it has been four long and trying years since my de-posture from that same throne. Four bitter, angry years, soured by many frustrations, and a bad fiscal moon rising.
I am intimately familiar with the massive powers vested in our Executor Branch. These may be wielded as a scalpel, or as a cudgel, or simply lain aside as so much kindling while one tears weeds fromst the ranch hedgerow—the powers ebb and flow, but the import of whose hands (or hunting tentacles) might, at their whim, grasp such powers remains of the utmost.
Four candidates stand aligned before you, two pairs pugilistic and politely ferocious, gabardine-garbed. They fight for the honor of serving Us, and we must select our finest handmaids to do so: Know them for what they are:
- Barack Hanuman Obama—son of Hawaii, grandson of the Indonesian Archipelago. The final step in a millenia-long breeding project designed to produce a superhuman. The program was begun by a rare joint partnership between the floating isle of Mu and the Atlantean Superfortress. The tempest-tossed Witch-Sisters of Greater Samoa oversaw the project for years, carefully choosing mates and mares, wretches and wenches until the perfect sequence of genes was expressed. In obscurity he toiled for many years, his days spent organizing communities, his nights dedicated to full-body clap push-ups and high-protein vegetarian meals. Now, under the solar glare of the national stage, he has manifested as our kwistaz haederach, the Chosen One who shall usher in to the Fourth Great Age. He borrowed $25 from me over two years ago, and has apologized on several occasions for the delay in repayment. When last we met, he had forgotten his wallet, which is entirely understandable.
- John Macintosh MacCain of the Clan of MacCain—Panamanian love-child, traveler, and swarm entity. The truth about McCain has been shrouded for eons. Sometime during his vicious imprisonment in Washingtonia Deca by the Reaganite sect of Kali, MacCain made swift trade in fleshbits of his own corpus. Some say it was his own flesh he despised, while others claim he was desperate for Powers, and willing to pay any price. It is known that his father and grandfather were both Navy men, four-starred generals charged with safe-keeping gnomic secrets beneath the waves. During the 1930s it was MacCain's own father who sought the power of R'yleh in the trenches of the sea, hoping to twist the evil power of that place into a weapon against Hitler and his leather-clad Uber-Apes. In the 1890's, on the verge of war in Cuba and the Philippines, MacCain's grandfather sought to tame the Triangle of Bermuda by sinking quartz columns to bisect primary ley lines traversing the Caribbean sea bed. He was never seen again. Steeped in the sea and her mythos, MacCain did deal with unsavory beings. Like a ship repaired slowly through the years, his parts have been replaced. He is the Argos on two feet. He is a swarm of mystic energies and reneged promises. Every day he has a new master, and a new demon plays the tune to which he dances. The dances, done in the solitary privacy of a coin-operated "to peep" booth, are often erotic in the extreme. He owes me $14.37, and refuses both my calls and mail electronique.
- Joseph Robinette Langtree Biden, Jr. Extreme-to-the-Max—ageless politician, river boat captain, son of conquistadors, lover. His secret is this: he has run in every election since 1804. Cursed at birth to never know rest until President of these yet still United States, he has fought at every turn to lay his hand upon our tricornered Torah-Q'uran-Bible and swear that last full oath. Perhaps, Joe Biden dares to hope to imagine, cuddled amongst his quilts in the darkest, most private recesses of the inky, moonless Beltway night, Perhaps this year is the year of my final step towards Peace, towards that white-cotton rest at the end of evening. He longs to sit before a fireplace in his pajamas and know what it is to be satisfied, to know a moment's quietude before sleeping for ten hours at a time. On two separate occasions he supplied me with change for a parking meter, on one occasion breaking a $5 bill, and on the other giving me four dimes and a cursed shield nickel without compensation of any sort.
- Sarah "Lipstick" Palin—forged from the finest Damascus watered steal, she is a smiling beacon of hate and pettiness. Waters freeze where so ever she treads, kittens and puppies are born as malformed monstrosities, midgets weep, and girls—heretofore Gone Wild—garb themselves in high-necked frocks. Once a small-town news anchor, Palin moved to small-town Alaska where her own brand of venom and bile blindsided the small-minded townsfolk. She sucker-punched and ambushed her way through debate after debate. She wears her ignorance of the world as a shield against criticism and wields folksy charm like a spiked, charming mace. We have never met.
We here at Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) and Associated Media Services—including, but not limited to, our Newswire and 100% Cutelove—make it known that in the contest for president of the United States of this portion of the Americas, we firmly and roundly endorse Barack Hanuman O'Sullivan Obama and his ageless cohort, Lord Admiral Joseph Robinette Langtree Biden, D.D., D.D.S.
In their hands we hope to see a return to Peace and Prosperity. We hope to see an end to blindly divisive bickering that portrays every conflict as Manichean in nature, as if our world were perfectly split between Good and Evil, Us and Them, My Sporting Team and Your Sporting Team, spiked Penis and fanged Vagina. We hope that the steady rush of jobs from our shores to India, Africa, Old Mexico, California, and the Philippines can be halted, and that the tattered economic fabric of our industrial cities can be darned and woven into a mighty, breakless net that draws many delicious fiduciary fish to our tables and troughs. We hope that our schools may be fortified with patience and money and fine steel-reinforced concrete, so that the future of America is a future awash in knowledge and wisdom, and protected from Agendas, be they gay or stern. We hope that the economic chasm between the wealthy one percent and the rest of the nation can be bridged, and that it is American workers building that bridge. We hope that one day every family can afford their own home, unless they would prefer not to have a home, and might do so without crippling debt or ugly neighbors who refuse to invite us to their barbecued gatherings. We hope to promise a solar car in every garage, and a succulent dog in every pot. We hope that we can be defended against eldritch powers arrayed against us. We hope that the Great Rising of the seas can be stopped and reversed, our shoreline cities saved, and our vacation properties not swept to the sea.
In short, we Hope.
Remember, remember on the fourth of November:
Eight years of gunpowder, treason, and plot,
For we see no reason why two terms of treason
Should ever be forgot.
Vote early and vote often, my darling dears.
Until Then, I Yet Remain,
Your Giant Squid