My stealth campaign continues, running well beneath the radar to avoid early trouble — legal problems, for example, over my lack of real estate investments, or nasty protests from the MeToo movement meant to embarrass me for my tendency to hug Kate and Heidi at the Firebrand at every opportunity. While I’m, so to speak, on the subject, I have even less desire to find out what MeToo thinks about my hugging Butch or Bartleson or Marty Hatcher. God knows, whatever they think, what they’d do would not be pretty.
And that brings up another shall I say ticklish situation: it’s time right here and now for me to come out of the closet. Read my lips: I am not gay, not at the moment. Tomorrow? Or after the election? I know I don’t have to tell you that when it comes to politics, anything is possible.
Concerns about my age? Take the worst-case scenario: I forget where I am and bomb the wrong country. Voters should remember (there’s that word again, or is it?) that history repeats itself. Sooner or later what happened will get back around to me, give me another crack at it.
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