After all that unpleasantness with Barack Obama in Muscatine a couple of weeks ago, I decided to focus my efforts on getting some good buzz going about Davidson’s Family Restaurant within the McCain campaign. But with my arm in this big cast and the Davidson’s catering truck left a smoldering, twisted pile of steel and rubber by that goshdarn bomb-defusing robot, how was I supposed to get my delicious McCain Hotcakes—add an order of Homey Palin Homefries for only a dollar extra—into their namesake’s mouth while he does damage control in New Hampshire?
Ingenuity, that’s how. I got the address of the venue in Manchester, NH where McCain would attempt to stave off a GOP loss of the Granite State, and packed up one of those heat-retaining insulated mailers with McCain Hotcakes, a fresh Thermos of Davidson’s coffee, and a cute little note that said “These hotcakes are to die for, Mr. McCain!” Then I mailed it off same-day with FedEx, and waited for word-of-mouth to do its thing.
Well, apparently the fucking coffee spilled all over everything inside the package, and the note emerged reading “Die Mr. McCain!” And how do I know this? The goddamn motherfucking Feds that came by today to freeze my assets because I’m a “potential terror suspect” told me, that’s how I fucking know.
Fuck you, McCain, it was innocent mistake. And fuck you, Agents Emerson and Logsdon. I’ve just about given up on this whole goddamned country. How does “Davidson’s French Riviera Bistro” sound to everyone? Starting to sound pretty goddamned good to me.
