11/04/08:

10/16/08:

08/20/08:

08/13/08:

07/21/08:

Lobbyists
Some interesting things I’ve learned about lobbyists:

1. Most of them were not actually raised in lobbies
2. They love to eat lunch
3. They always ask “can I call your Robbie?” (And no, they can’t)

I’m seeing the disadvantages of not having an official platform, except to “spread gags and hilarity to the humor-starved masses, etc, etc.” When nobody knows your opinion on anything, they tend to try and guess. And instead of mainstream lobbies contacting you, you get some of the weirder ones, such as:

1. The Lobby for the Advancement of Cave-Men in Commercials
2. Friends of Bald Eagle Hunting
3. Future Farmers of Naboo
4. Seniors Against All Those Punks Hanging Out on My Lawn
5. Confederacy of Music Snobs Who Don’t Mind an Emo Track Now And Again
6. The Log Cabin Cosmonauts
7. The Union of Screamy YouTube Proponents of Britney Spears
8. Texans Anonymous
9. The Ku Klux Klan

I’m learning that one ill-timed photograph of a Five Card Stud game with David Duke and Chita Rivera can REALLY confuse Keith Olbermann. After reporting the circulating photograph, he just paused for five full minutes, shaking his head and staring blankly at the camera. At last he murmured: “My fellow Americans, no words could mollify my perplexity at this moment. Lord Isenberg, the pompous presidential candidate of the unsuitably aristocratic name, has once again proven the ambiguity of his ideals. I am sick… seriously, I’m gonna upchuck on my shoes… good night and good l— HRRRRRRLLLRRHHRR...!”

Politics is hard.

07/13/08:

Campaign Spending
My campaign manager, Rachel Zoot, asked if we could have a “talk”. We hired her outside of the Hodgepodge Society, so she’s a bit of a cold fish, and “talk” usually means “boring lecture about spending less money on frivolous things.” We reviewed my recent receipts, and she carefully (that is, boringly) explained why each purchase was a poor idea. Here were the principle culprits:

1. Paris Hilton Bubble Bath Set ($950)
2. Three-gallon champagne bottle ($460)
3. Complete Ally McBeal boxed set ($$146.93)
4. Refurbished Delorean, 5-speed manual, gray ($57,500)
5. Donald Duck Stapler ($15.99)

I calmly explained that a presidential incumbent needs to relax, the stapler was a practical joke, and Deloreans are awesome. When Ms. Zoot asked me to explain the joke, I first deflected, saying that only losers explain their jokes. She pressed me, so I sighed and told her that, when I lunched with John McCain, I wanted to staple his tie to the table and see what he would do. When Ms. Zoot said she “didn’t get it,” I said “I’m getting to the good part” and did an impression of a Donald Duck voice: “Here’s mud in your eye!”

Ms. Zoot still “didn’t understand why that would be funny,” and at this point I was getting aggravated, because it seemed positively obvious. So I sulked in the bathroom for about 15 hours, shouting through the door that “I’m not coming out” and “nobody likes me anyway” and “somebody slide a pizza under the door, I’m hungry.” Later, after long deliberations with my staff, we decided that the Donald Duck Stapler Routine didn’t, in actuality, make any sense at all. This is the last time I take Mike Myers’ advice on anything.

06/23/08:

Air Force 63

As it turns out, one game of horseshoes is all you need to make friends with President Bush (don’t tell anybody, but I let him win). We bonded over my apparent hatred of Mexicans (what I really said was “setbacks,” but whatever), although it was awkward when he started calling me his BCFL (best cow-bud for life). We were spending time on his ranch, where a servant mixed us some “buckaroo bonsais,” a cocktail containing two parts pineapple juice and six parts raw petroleum. After we had whiled away the afternoon, I mentioned that I had to be in Alaska to deliver a speech on seal-training.

            “Why doncha take my jet?” the President offered.

            “Air Force One?!” I exclaimed.

            “Don’t be a doofus – I’m not gonna give ya Air Force One. And honestly, Air Forces two through sixty-two are perty much booked. But you can have Air Force 63. Ain’t nobody taken that son-of-a-gun.”

            I thanked the President and his chauffeur drove me to a little air-strip just outside of the Bush Ranch. Really it was a pasture, marked with a sign reading “Super Fund” (whatever that means). The plane was built out of cardboard and coat-hangers, and although the pilot looked like he was asleep, really he was dead. Luckily I minored in Improvisational Aerobatics at HPU, and after building an engine out of dead grass and mulch, I gave the old bird a sturdy push and I was airborne. Five days later, I arrived in Juneau, where I crash-landed on an atoll. Air Force 63 was soon decimated by a herd of caribou.

            The President was not happy (partly because he kept calling them “moose,” which is just plain incorrect. Stupid CNN). He told me by satellite phone that Air Force 63 would have to be replaced.

            “No problem,” I said. “I can put together a piece of crap cardboard plane in ten minutes.”

            “Lord Robert,” said a strange and ominous voice. “This is Vice President Cheney.”

            “Dear God!” I whispered. “I thought you were dead!”

            “No, Lord Robert. I’m alive and well and sipping a well-mixed Buckaroo. And I have some bad news for you: That plane was bought during the Reagan Administration.”

            I blinked. “Uh-huh.”

            “Which means it’s worth $4 billion.”

            “Hmm…” I said thoughtfully. “I’m a little short on cash right now, ever since the Virgin Rainforest Deflowering Lobby refused to endorse me. So I propose a little wager.”

            “I’m listening,” hissed the Vice President.

            Let’s just say everything turned into a Super Secret Baccarat Game, and SOMEBODY proved even better at cards than at horseshoes. But then I made a silly mistake and called a bluff, and let’s just say that Boutros Boutros Ghali is terrible with a German-made stick-shift. Oh, and Cheney tried to poison me, but I had a defibrillator in my car. Then we chased each other through a construction site. You wouldn't think it, but that guy can really run.

06/18/08:

Pardon My French!

Thanks to “The Gooch,” our Ambassador to France, I managed to finagle a dinner with Nicolas Sarkozy, the alleged President of France (apparently the president is no longer Napoleon. News to me!). We decided to meet at Le Farfadet Dégoûté*, an acclaimed bistro in downtown Fort Worth. When his personal footman introduced him as “Monsieur President Nicolas Paul Stéphane Sarközy de Nagy-Bosca,” I was alarmed to realize that Sarkozy’s full name was significantly longer than mine. This set me into a deep depression, and as we dug into our appetizers of diced sheep’s hoof, I began to wonder if I was up for the job. I watched Sarkozy and his wife, the way they laughed and smiled, the way she moaned as he poured hot chocolate syrup down her largely exposed cleavage. It all seemed so effortless.

            “You seem so quiet tonight,” Sarkozy said, pausing from sucking on his Mrs. Sarkozy’s big toe.

            “There’s no deceiving you,” I said, idly prodding my squid-brain flambé. “I look at you both and I see true presidential mojo. I look at me, and I see a fool. A sexy fool, but a fool nonetheless.”

            “You need cheering up!” exclaimed Carla Bruni, Sarkozy’s wife, who was squeezing the juice out of raw tomatoes. “Nicky, baby, let’s show this man the meaning of joie de vivre!” She hurled the tomatoes at a waiter, who sighed, because Anne Heche was sitting at a nearby table and had just pelted him with arugula.

            But no matter – the Sarkozys sure knew how to jumpstart a man’s soul. We ran from the restaurant and jumped in the nearby fountain. We splashed in the water and made funny poses, and then Nicolas broke off a piece of mortar and hurled it through a Radio Shack window, and we all had a good laugh. Soon we were unfastening our ties, which was a moot point, since we’d already stripped off the rest of our clothes, and we were prancing through the streets, causing taxi drivers to veer and crash into fire-hydrants. We enjoyed a late-night coffee, in this nice little café that we broke into, and Carla sang some favorite ballades before passing out and hitting her head on the espresso machine. At the hospital Nicolas and I kicked out a freshly sponged quadriplegic and used his bath as a hot-tub. Carla can’t recall her name, but she assures me she had a great time.

            You know, the French really do do it better!

06/14/08:

Iowa Caucus

Well, how was I supposed to know that the Iowa Caucuses already happened?

            Heh, Caucus. What a funny name. Like, “Wanna see my caucus?” Or: “Where’s your caucus, sucker?” Or: “The opposite of a chicken is a caucus.” Or: “Look at the caucus trying to order extra fries!” I could do this all day. Actually, I probably will. I have no idea where my motorcade ended up. Ooh, ooh: “There’s a caucus driving my motorcade!”

06/11/08:

Mothers for the Youth of Tomorrow

Let me just say that MYT is a tough crowd. When I opened my speech, I invited Timothy Willers, a 45-year-old patent lawyer, to take the stage. “This man was once a youth,” I proclaimed. “When he was a child, he worried about tomorrow. But look at him now! He’s a successful patent lawyer!”

            Then some lady asked me about the youth of today. This was annoying, because MYT stands for Mothers for the Youth of Tomorrow, not Today. Hasn’t she read her own brochure?

            Then I realized that I’d been going about this the wrong way. So I asked the Nick of Time to kidnap a baby from the following day. “See this baby?” I called out, holding the squealing brat aloft. “This baby is from… the future!”

            Well, this caused all kinds of time paradoxes that we need not delve into, but the point is, I won’t have to stop in Cleveland, because it no longer exists. Apparently Cleveland’s future rested on this child remaining in the present and not going back in time to help my run for president. Gee, wiz, lesson learned! So much for my “music totally kicks ass” speech at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

            Oh, have to remember to tell the Nick of Time to return the baby. What else for tomorrow? Oh, yes, get a picture doing Judo with Vladimir Putin. That guy’s going DOWN this time!

06/07/08:

Round Table Discussion, Roanoke

Hit a snag just before the roundtable discussion when I asked what kind of tree a Roanoke was. Turns out it’s not a tree at all. “Then what is the city named after?” Never got a satisfactory answer to that one.

            Mostly we talked about urban development and the future of the economy (Yawn!). I retorted by showing that cool trick I can do with my fingers, where they lay over each other kind of like a fan. Someone asked if I was double-jointed. I corrected him by saying he meant “ambidextrous.” He insisted that he meant double-jointed. I boiled with rage and hurled the pitcher of water off the table (which, by the way, is not technically round, or even curved). Storming away from the meeting, I shouted: “Well, I guess nobody here is interested in my commemorate Tang Fountains, in honor of the famous Roanoke Tang Factory.”

            Turns out Tang has never been manufactured in Roanoke. Also, “double-jointed” was probably the correct term. The press had a field day with that one! Relaxed from the hard day at the Ramada suite with an all-night Twister party. Still not sure where all the strippers came from, but that intern’s definitely getting a raise! (Kidding. Interns don’t get paid).

First Press Conference

Started the campaign trail with a press conference in Washington, D.C. Actually, just outside of D.C. at Funland Waterpark. Figured the pressure would be lessened by flume rides (plus Barbara Walters looks hilarious in a bikini! Later she asked me for bus fair, but all I had was a complementary Haunted Love Canal pass). Questions started off hard-hitting, like “Why do you want to be president?”, and “What’s up with the Speedos?” Had interns hand out Whoopee Cushions as defensive tactic, to great effect:

            CNN: Mr. Isenberg…

            ME: Ahem! LORD Isenberg.

            CNN: Uh, yeah. Could you tell us your—

            WHOOPEE: Plllffffflllllrrrt!

            CNN: —dicare costs, considering the—

            WHOOPEE: Pbblllrrfffttthhh!

            CNN: —mith went on the record as sayin—

            WHOOPEE: Zzzzhhhhtt!

            CNN: (Sigh). What I’m wondering is, are you taking this election altogether seriously?

            ME: The question, actually, is whether you are taking it seriously.

            CNN: Me?

            ME: Yes.

            CNN: Why me?

            ME: Is that your question?

            CNN: Is what my question?

            ME: Could someone offer me a real question, and maybe remember it this time?

This has given ample time to figure out my platform. Probably didn’t win points with CNN, especially after the interns slashed his tires. Boy, the look on that guy’s face was just precious!