By Jeff Girod
See ya, Herm! Once a frontrunner for Republican presidential nominee, Herman Cain now has a better shot of becoming a Kardashian.
Cain said he’s quitting the race to the White House “because of the continued distractions, the continued hurt caused on me and my family . . .” Hmmm. If only we could find the person causing all these distractions and hurt . . . Wait a minute. I think I see him . . . Yes, standing at the podium under a banner that says, “Vote for me, the Great Distractor and Hurter, Herman Cain.”
Herm Cain still denies he had a 13-year affair or that he sexually harassed several female subordinates, though he did admit to making “mistakes, professionally, personally.” (He may have left out “nakedly.”)
Here’s the thing: If you’re going to have an affair that lasts longer than 3 summer Olympics, don’t run for president. When I buy Sudafed they make me show two forms of ID. You don’t think there’s a background check to run for the most powerful job in the world?
Being a politician is like having to put on a suit and flag pin every day and get a verbal colonoscopy for 2-6 years. We should automatically be skeptical of anyone who wants to run for election because nobody is that blameless.
Former Senator John Edwards’ ran for vice president . . . while his wife was dying of breast cancer and he fathered a secret love child. Then Edwards allegedly used campaign finances to bribe anyone and everyone to keep it on the down low. Edwards is now our nation’s 47th vice president. Whoops. I mean he’s unemployed, facing six felony counts and could do five years in prison.
Eliot Spitzer earned his stripes by prosecuting prostitution rings as New York’s tough-talking attorney general . . . Then as New York’s governor, Spitzer was busted with a $1,000-an-hour call girl named Ashley. Spitzer also allegedly paid up to $80,000 for prostitutes—which are either 80 high-class prostitutes or 800 of the kind who take double coupons.
Former New York Representative Anthony Weiner denied sending lewd photos to at least six women and his 45,000 Twitter followers . . . Then Weiner quietly appreciated the irony of his last name as tabloids ran headlines such as “Stick a Fork in Weiner,” “Weiner’s Rise and Fall” and “Weiner Finally Yanks Himself.”
The line of disgraced politicians is long, and like Weiner, drifts to the left: Bill Clinton, Larry Craig, Mark Sanford, Barney Frank, Gary Condit, Chris Lee, Mark Souder, Eric Massa, Kwame Kilpatrick, Mark Foley, David Vitter, John Ensign—and those are just the sexy ones. Everyone from Representative Charles B. Rangel to former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich is either facing jail time or just has a lot of campaign buttons to recycle.
If you’ve ever kept a stable of Latvian aspiring models in an underground labyrinth, done an 8-eight ball of cocaine off of a dead rodeo clown, used a hacksaw to dismember a drifter in a Travelodge sink, tasted human flesh in a JPEG or QuickTime movie, been grand marshal in a parade of festooned Klan members, intentionally exploded/ignited/flooded/asphyxiated or ritually sacrificed anything or anyone for the insurance money/alimony/Keno winnings or conducted a one-man, scorched-earth campaign against all things homosexual only later to admit that, yes, you yourself go by the name “Major Winky” and you like to dress up like a military officer and stick “Private Winky” in public restroom glory holes/photocopiers/the Soup Plantation’s macaroni salad . . . DON’T RUN FOR OFFICE.
Not for president, not for vice president, not for treasurer and especially not for recording secretary (because everything gets recorded). Don’t run for anything. ANYTHING.
If someone wants you to run in a jog-a-thon, turn it down. Because there’s always a chance you’ll get recognized while jogging and someone will say, “Holy crap, isn’t bib No. 1157 the guy who got drunk at your son’s birthday party, wrestled Chuck E. Cheese in the ball pit wearing only a Skee ball apron and declared himself the sausage king?”
Everybody has a little freaky in them—or wants a little freaky in them. But good golly, there’s a difference between running for president and the privacy of your own living room inflatable pool.
Contact Jeff Girod at firstname.lastname@example.org.