Greetings, citizens and residents of the United States of America.

Your country is in grave danger.

I’ll spell out exactly how and from what, at leisure. We have more important matters to discuss today.

Last time I got frustrated enough with the desparate state of affairs that is These United States, I declared my candidacy for Emperor of the Planet.

This is because, when I set out to solve a problem, I do so with total thoroughness and no consideration of the practicality of the matter, whatsoever.

That’s why it was so pleasant when I was married. The missus is just as intelligent as yours truly, which is quite a few sigmas of rare. Her gift for the practical is only exceeded by mine own for the phantasmagoric and potential. So practical that she let me leave. Couldn’t have been easy. Wasn’t.

Nor have I abandoned that ambition, far from it. I’m the Lone Imperialist of the Lost Colonies. America is an Imperial power, with no Emperor. You sad benighted stick people have no idea how bad this is, because you live within the heart of darkness, and don’t leave often enough to see what the Earth has become thanks to the tenderness of our care.

An Empire, with no one in charge. Disgusting and dishonorable. The Russians almost deserve to win this one, though it pains me to say so. That’s a whole mashup of its own right there; I’m going to leave Helen Grozny out of this, for now. She’s on vacation.

Don’t get me started on the House of Windsor. The Queen has been incredibly impressive, in her own way, but the United Kingdom teeters on the brink of its own vast changes. Justice for Scotland and Eire is also a bit off topic, today. But not tomorrow, if you savvy.

This time around I did something quite a bit more dire: declared war on the United States, on behalf of a country called Tejas.

~5~

Here’s what you need to know about that gesture: it was far from empty. I have spent reasonable time in Mexico. I could make a case I’ve lived in Mexico since I moved to California, in fact. Both Texas and California were nations before joining the United States of Whatever, making de-annexation conceptually and legally distinct from the events which lead to the Civil War.

I don’t want to be the man responsible for the Civil War being renamed the First Civil War. I wouldn’t mind a statue or two commemorating me as the General of the War for Tejano Independence. In fact I can think of few higher honors, and aspire to those as well.

I’ve always been an ambitious man. My ambition was to a life of quiet scholarship, teaching the other humans to solve their numerous problems, hopefully in time to prevent various catastrophic changes from disturbing our distinct, dream-like brand of American comfort.

Mala tiempo, amigos. The time, we haz it not. The weather is changing, palpably, right before us. Oh hey, remember the Weather Underground? Me neither, way before my time (my pediatrician does); but we don’t need the Weatherman to taste the carbon on the wind.

It’s blowing the entire Artic Circle down on our heads. Consequences are predictable, and predicted.

So. I’m a made brother of what you can call Jerry’s Kids, or the Lightbringers. I am a man of respect within the cult of Santa Muerte; anyone who has seen the painting of Katarina I brought back from my last trip to San Miguel de Allende should understand the significance of my owning that and being alive/unrobbed/not dismembered with chainsaws.

I declared my war not far from the Mormon temple in Oakland. Zion was forced to abandon cherished religious beliefs in order to become the State of Utah, in direct contravention of the letter and spirit of our own First Amendment. Don’t let the clean cut bicycle schtick fool you; go watch Team America: World Police if you misunderstand the scope of their ambitions. Or Ender’s Game.

To the consternation of many friends and all my family, I have been homeless and without so much as a phone, for the whole summer so far. This gave me the room to broker the hardest piece of the puzzle: a pact between the Aryan Nation and the brothers of Def. I met with two Panthers named Patrick and Pete, in front of the hanging tree. They took my phone and let me live.

So the two most racist and dangerous gangs in America, implacable enemies, are backing my legion of honor. You should be afraid, SWPLs. I give you permission to feel real fear and terror, now. Don’t you look up, though. Look around you. Circumspice.

As for the all-important rural white cowboy vote, the Putmans raise rattlesnakes in a transmission shop in the Panhandle. I think we’re good on that front. Sons of Anarchy, waiting for the Arcon to get all growed up.

It would be unwise to discuss my bond with Native North America; understand only what you must, they are praying and visioning for the Ghost Rider, and have lived quietly and so patiently for our day to dawn.

Aw heck, let me respell that for you. I got Indians, from all directions. Where my dots at? Yo First Nations, we good? Órale, La Raza! Ghost Dance the whip. Gwai Low, sweet Chariot…

More than 1% of all Americans are in prison. Effectively that’s over 2% of all Men in North America. How many of the warriors is that? The bold and true. Do you think, perhaps, that there may be a fifth column of religious faithful within the Regular Army, perhaps some old police families who remember when the grandfather of the clan had a respectable job?

Who does that leave? Triads, Yakuza, and Slavs. None of which, much like my sex life, is any of your business, white America. Negotiations are intense and ongoing. They do rather like the idea of the Union splitting like a rotton melon; they’ve come to the tentative conclusion that it would be good for business.

Latins have their own names for yours, truly. A title I’ve rediscovered is El Capone, the cock of the walk. A fighting rooster is a velociraptor the size of a terrier, and can kill a man in five seconds. Sharp talons, and a total lack of giveafuckitude.

Demonstrating the totality of my lack of giveafuckitude required being sucker-punched in the face by a Scotsman, clad in kilt, bonnet, and sporran. Still no fucks given, and next time I’m in a ring, my hands won’t be tied down.

I’m givin serious thought to adding Matador to my list of qualifications to lead this planet through the Cataclysm. For a Shaivite vegetarian, it would be a powerful statement, no? Perhaps I’ll hold out for hunting the Bison across a restored plain, from horseback. I’m a man of greater patience than I let on.

Mithras, Mythryl, Midrash. On a roll…

It may be, that at this time, I have an effective monopoly on willing violence in the United States. What are they going to do, nuke us?

It’s okay, America. While I was in Chicago I came up with an even better plan.

I’m going to run for President. As a Republican.

And throw the race.

~7~

My qualifications: I’m a white man, native born, and 36 years old. Nothing else is necessary, the first two being qualifications only for a Republican, y’understand.

I’m a Jew, and openly sympathetic to the things Mexicans actually care about. I have my own deep connection to Chicago’s Black community, which was publically expressed in the person of the minister and best man at my wedding.

I come from a conservative family. My mother attended the Nathaniel Branden Freedom School, my father was the editor of a college newspaper called the New Conservative. I have been walking among liberals, and punking them intellectually, for the past 18 years. It made me into a bitter, sardonic Imperialist, and the kind of psychopath who would tear his own nation apart to conserve what is noble and true within it.

Here’s a campaign slogan for you: “Four More Years! It’s a generous offer, and all you’re getting”.

I’m telling you, my main concern is that I might win. My community knows that I’m far and away the best master debater they’ve ever met. My erudition and sense of humour is astonishing, and I can break into on-key renditions of slightly mashed-up classic songs, on demand. Can Donald Trump claim likewise?

I can code-switch to a passable Oxbridge accent, and I’ve been brushing up on my Kuntish. Er Kentish; still practicing the vowels, hwat.

I’ve even picked a running mate: Sarah Palin. Do you know why, America?

Because FUCK YOU. Also, she can see Russia from up there. Which is hot, and cold, all at once. Piquante y muy frio.

Relax. We’re planning to lose. That’s where y’all come in, Liberal America. Four More Years!

~8~

Let me explain to you what happens if you don’t get on board with this entirely insane ambition.

You will get either a Clinton, or a Bush administration.

So yesterday I was crashing a Bernie Sanders convention, for the free food, decent coffee, and a chance to see a politician talk goddamn sense for once.

Hashtage #Berners. Burners! You can’t make this stuff up, really, you can’t. Everything he’s stumping for, is awesome. Kinda. I was cheering along, then left when it started to get eh, hecklish. Plus I’d had my fill of chips and dip, my compliments to the caterers.

He can’t win, people. He won’t. He’s a sense-talking old white man, on the biodiversity side of the blue and red. That dog can bark all day, and he’d bite off a nice chunk if they gave him the White House; it’s just that he can’t hunt.

He’s going to get Howard Dean’ed right off the list, along with Kucinich and the rest of the Democratic sense-talkers. Something rotten right in the core of that party wants the Secretary of State and former First Lady to be the Thatcher of the New World. That genuinely disturbs me.

It will disturb the voters, also. Which is how Jebediah Bush would, in all likelihood, end up taking over the Oval. Y’know that wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, it would be.

My reaction to four more BushClinton years would be to ragequit Estadosunidos, take my passport to the frontier, and go talk over my options with El Chapo. By the time I set foot within your borders again, you’ll be ready to talk terms.

Look, I have a better idea: I can sweep the Republican field, because I’m actually that masculine and charismatic. At least split the vote on the right, Perot style, but on the cheap, with YouTube and shit. Blackjack. Hookers. All the good things in life.

There is a serious risk I’ll win. This is despite my numerous disqualifications in the form of felony, philandering, and a filthy mouth. My total lack of shame or embarrassment will more than make up for it, I promise.

~9~

Let me explain to you how I can actually lose.

You’ll need a woman, Democrats. Women vote. She has to be attractive, though, Hilary is a butt-ugly flack. Like model-quality attractive.

Your best bet is a lawyer. Lawyers and lefties disproportionately win the White House.

She cannot possibly be white. I’ve got the white vote in my manpurse, I’m a Republican. The whole point of this tedious exercise is to put someone on the walls of the elementary schools who stands out from the crowd. She’d look hot on a $1 coin, too. I’ll see what I can do with respect to cutting a peso or two.

A Black woman lawyer could almost sweep the field. You might run smack into the unwillingness of SWPL race traitors to endure 12 years of Black victory, though. Black/Hispanic relations in this country are quite complex and I’m pretty sure they’d find that sort of balance of power unacceptable at the present time. Damn shame, no one can bitch me down like a Black woman. Believe me, I’ve experienced this, and almost wish I hadn’t.

A Latina faces the same problem, except in reverse. If you want to focus on an ‘issue’, consider where she’d have to fall on the subject of abortion. It’s just not possible, despite being so rico and suave that I’d spend the whole administration drinking daiquiris and playing pinocle.

That leaves you with one of the two varieties of Asian. Or an Indian, but good luck with that. What’s your slogan, “Reservation, Dharma, or Bust?” trust me America’s not that good yet. We can dream… but this job calls for more than just dreams.

Ok, Democrats, there’s your challenge: an Asian female lawyer. The Asian demographic is fairly split from a nationalistic perspective, I’m suggesting Chinese as the kind of compromise everyone can get behind. Japanese and Vietnamese would both play poorly with the war demographic, and Hawaiian would be too obvious.

It would be helpful if she’s also a talented performance artist, since I’m the kind of asshole who’s likely to call a dance-off if I’m losing a verbal debate. It would be even better if she walked away from all that Law bullshit to teach disadvantaged youth or something, Democrats are way into that kinda thing.

I mean I don’t have anyone *specific* in mind, it’s your race to win or lose. I hope any liberal with an ounce of sense wants me to run and lose, if you have the patience to actually read what I’m saying and the international playboy perspective with which to believe it.

I’ll wander away from this topic with one more observation: The core voting demographic of the United States of America, is composed of divorced women. Who watch daytime television, hang out on Pinterest, collect alimony if they’re lucky, and raise another generation of thankless brats who don’t get to see their fathers as much as they’d like.

You can win this thing, America. You can win this good and true.

Good bless America.

Four more years.

S’all you’re getting.

Bye!