Cruising south on I-35 through Texas, a state I had in the hip pocket of my powderblue, soft cotton leisure pants — the pants with the elastic waist? Ahh. Makes an old boy’s life worth living. I kid you not — I understood once again that the best thing about being retired is not having to drive in traffic.
It was somewhere between 2-5 a.m. and I was deep into my drug problem research, tickled to death — inspired is more like it — with the new strategy my campaign manager, Deb Callihan, had designed, the intent of which is to put an end to this charade all the fake news promoters have been calling a “race.”
I had answered so many questions — “So, Mike, why aren’t you in the debates?” — or hadn’t answered them, you know: whatever. The thing is, plenty of pitiful political pundits had surreptitiously studied my strategy and thought — well, I don’t care what they thought. I’m comfortably confident. Deb has it all figured out, and what’s that? We’re talking stealth, brother, under the radar. Oh, sure, here they come with their questions, trying so hard to stump me. Hah! Fat chance.
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