I Support This John Wycleef Character’s Decision To Run For Office

It has recently come to my attention that a man I have never heard of- a man who happens to be a member of that disgusting sub-pig class of the plebes known as the “entertainers”- wishes to obtain political power in a country that I certainly have no interest in. Furthermore, the state in question is apparently on the cusp of meeting its fate, a roaring holocaust of tragedy and political upheaval, social anarchy, famine, disease, and hopelessness. My first instinct, of course, was to be competitive: “Over my dead body!” I said; “The downtrodden and the ill-fated of the world belong to Bowen and Sons, and I’ll be damned if anyone will tear the plagued and homeless denizens of a doomed nation from my grasp before I’ve sucked the last pitiable and worthless drops of life from their very bodies! I have just discovered this nation’s existence, and I am not about to let it go now without a fight! This is war!” But after some very clinical and analytical- almost surgical- logic on my part, I have come to the conclusion that this John Wycleef character may, in fact, run for the Presidency of the nation in question with my blessing.


On a recent Thursday morning, I awoke from the nightmarish, paralyzing chains of slumber in an exceptionally dismal and perturbed state. It is not uncommon for me to awake from that torture of the heart and soul that they refer to as “the dreaming life” in such a condition- I often find myself burdened with the memories of a night’s torments so strongly that my ability to even rise from my bed and greet the Hell that is the outside world is severely compromised. If I had my way, more often than not, I would simply continue laying in bed with my trusty flask of Laudanum, my revolver (which I always keep loaded with two bullets, in case the circumstances permit that the end comes and I have found a friend or a hated enemy to drag with me down to Hell), and my copy of The Prince. As a man of business and enterprise, however, this solution to my ailments, though certainly a pleasurable one, would be entirely unacceptable: who will wring the necks and the hearts of the shameless hordes, the poor and the weak, the helpless and the starving, if I spend my days laying in bed and wallowing in misery? No, there is work to be done, and so I have found ways of perking myself up to face the day on these occasions. On this particular day, I chose to go to my favorite Barber’s Shoppe for a hot lather shave, a bit of a trim around the neckline, and oral sex from one of my Barber’s stock of white slaves. For, indeed, there are no greater pleasures in life than the way your skin feels after a hot lather shave, the way your heart feels after looking at yourself in the mirror and being pleased with your appearance, rather than horrified and wrought with terror over your actions, and the way your soul feels after what was once a bright and promising young girl of wealth and beauty, brought to her knees by a heartless world and the tragic circumstances of her family, sold into a trade where she is nothing more than a piece of meat to be used for pleasure and then discarded when her use has run out, has serviced you.

On this occasion, as I was being shaved, I heard some of the rabble who often frequent my Barber’s Shoppe discussing recent events in our nation. I tried not to listen, but when I heard “running for president,” I had to acknowledge their presence and apologize for having ignored them for the last few hours as they had tried to make small talk with me, requested I move my horse and carriage from on top of their servant’s foot, or whatever trifles with which they had been bothering me. After this volley of pleasantries was finished, I asked them to explain the topic of their conversation. They told me about this John Wycleef person and how he has gone about posturing himself to take over this wounded nation of Hatee. The time came when my shave was finished, and so I stopped listening to what they were saying and went home. Behind me, I could hear them yelling something about something- I suppose they had thought I would continue talking with them after my shave was finished! The brutes!- but I had more important things on my mind than finding out who they were so I could ruin them. I found a young man who refers to himself as my “neighbor”- his name is Darrell, and he is a retired high school chemistry teacher- and asked him, as a young person with his arm on the pulse of the entertainment world today, who this John Wycleef person is. He said a lot of things about music not being what it used to be, started talking about some dead people who had apparently been done a tremendous favor and were full of gratitude, and then I realized that I had been listening to him drone for almost thirty seconds! I promptly slapped him across the face with my dueling glove and spat in his eye. He did not seem to understand what it was I was trying to say, and retreated most shamefully back into his home. I made a mental note to bring him to his knees by way of ruining his family and his business by the end of the month and made my way home for lunch. Cucumber and mayonnaise sandwiches- no bread, of course- and my daily glass of the blood of a fatted calf to preserve my youth and my strength of character. All in all, it was a disgusting day.