I was — you’re not going to believe this — stumped.
(Hey, how about that: stumped on the stump! Get it?)
There I was, about to face a hostile crowd of silly-shirted bowlers at Split Happens Lanes over in Salida when this world’s most heartless campaign manager, Deb Callihan, showed me yet another poll demanding I drop out of the race for POTUS, and I would, too, drop out, if I were entirely, rather than basically, unpatriotic. I mean, I would not have stepped up to the plate in the first place had not two or three cute, if a tad chubby, girls in “Powered by Coffee and CBD” T-shirts not urged me to throw my hat in the ring, quit whining and bite the bullet—and so I did, and what then? I’m accused by an editorial in The Navajo Nation Shopper of running a campaign inspired by gringo clichés. Go figure!
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