My 8 simple rules to reform county government

I know, I know, the title is a rip-off of a sit com on TV, but I really am not that original. In fact, I really don’t enjoy thinking. Don’t call me a plagiarist, though.

That was my original title for my press conference, but Bridget told me to change the title. I'm really considering firing her. She really botched the entire press conference today. First, she had it at the old Ivorydale plant that represents hundreds of jobs gone from the city for places overseas. Then, she makes sure it's outside next to train tracks and heavy traffic. I swear, I think she's secretly trying to kill this campaign. If I didn't know any better, I'd say Todd Portune is behind it all.

I thought I would share with you my original 5 rules:

1) Clean up County Finances – Alright, so Phil fired the head of Jobs and Family Services soon after he took office. And I know Phil is responsible for getting spending under the rate of inflation. But I’m talking about reducing debt by taxing everyone more than we are. Think about it – it worked for us when I was on city council, so it will work for us now. Remember me supporting the “jock” tax? Remember me ending property tax rollbacks supported by Heimlich?

2) Limit Contributions – I wouldn’t make this rule if I had friends like Phil, but I don’t. Of course, immediate family should still be able to give as much as they can, like the $160,000 my dad gave me last week for a TV buy, but third parties not related by blood should be banned. That would definitely tilt the playing field to my advantage.

3) Follow All Laws and Policies – Just by saying this, I’m implying that Phil does not (genius, eh?). Even if I do not have anything of substance, innuendo alone is a powerful tool. Forget about my 27 unpaid parking tickets...nobody cares about those anyway.

4) End the Political Games and Bickering – Although I come from City Council where we all make our livings off of the backs of peons, I mean citizens, by bickering, I will talk about ending bickering. Please disregard my past performance as well as my mayoral campaign. I’m a changed man as of today.

5) Broaden Citizen Access – I don’t know what this means yet, but it sounds good, and I’m adding it.

Please do not ask for details. I’ll probably create a really long “plan” full of fluff with very little details, but by the sheer volume of pages I put into the plan, I can say “how can you say I have no details when I have a 57-page plan talking about this, you stupid imbecile?!?”

The worst part of the press conference was when that fat-head goon Chris Finney guy showed up. I thought he was going to kick my ass. Have you seen that guy? He looks like a cross between Frankenstein and Scooter from the Muppets. Lop off the top of his head and install bolts in his neck... I'm telling you, it's scary.

Kimball Perry from the Cincinnati Post just stood by and watched, wringing his hands like Igor as though he wanted to see me get thumped. I have to remember to make sure he loses his job when I'm elected (Dad knows the bigwigs over there, after all).

Finkenstein had the nerve to point out to the reporters there that I have never had a real job and that I've made a living off the backs of over-taxed payers for years. What's up with that?

Alright, I'm kind of upset right now. I need to grab a white russian and sit in my basement hot tub for awhile. I think I'll use Calgon suds - they take me away.

I just need to find my rubber Donald Ducky.

Smear the Queer - and more bad dreams

So... Phil Heimlich has chosen to take the gloves off.

I visited his brand new web site today and downloaded his radio and tv ads, and I am stunned at the way Heimlich has enlisted others to smear my record.

No problem. I'm going to fight fire with fire. He has the "tough on crime" Joe Deters on his side, slinging mud. I have, um, well, frankly, no one to match Deters.

Forget about Deters. Those radio and TV spots were juset a nasty smear tactic, designed to let people know that Heimlich is the choice of the Fraternal Order of Police. So what? Screw the cops. There. I said it. SCREW THE CINCINNATI POLICE DEPARTMENT.

AND SCREW YOU PHIL HEIMLICH.

OK. I feel better now.

Time to share Part 2 of this bizarre dream I keep having.

Spam Sade and the Case of the Missing Politician (Part 2)

I am glad that I left Ms. Boherty on the floor of my office weeping away. This speakeasy was no place for a dame like her. I just hope she doesn’t sit in my chair while I’m gone.

I walked in and saw the place full of people. Some were at the bar. Others were at tables. There was a live band playing roaring music on the stage and some flappers dancing to the tunes.

The casino tables were in another room.

No one took notice as I walked into the gaming parlor. That is one of the many skills I have developed over the years. People knew who I was, but I could walk into a crowded room, and no one would notice. I was that good.

Everyone back here was dressed handsomely. Smoke filled the air. The whole place was alive with activity.

I went straight to the roulette table where Ms. Boherty’s missing politician was last seen. I saw people there I’ve seen before.

Malk Marlory was there. He was winning. He always wins. His brother, Male, was at another table across the room. It looked like he was just breaking even but about to make a big play.

Next to Marlory was a man I had seen before. He wasn’t playing, he was just there helping out Marlory. He was known as “The Schnoz”. He was the man with the answers. If you wanted to get something done or find out anything, all you needed to do was schmooze The Schnoz.

But next to him was someone else I had seen before. A woman in red stood there (the rest of my dream is all in black and white, but this broad was in red). I knew her type: past her prime, trying to be something she wasn’t. I could tell that she thought she was beautiful, but the other guys in the room paid no attention to her. It was Gheslie Liz – another politician, but one not to be trusted.

I approached The Schnoz, but I was stopped by the lady in red.

“Oh, look at you! What are you doing in here?” hee hee. She was drunk. Her breath smelled like gin made in a dirty bathtub.

“Look, Ms. Liz, I need to see The Schnoz.” I brushed past her. I could feel the scorn seething from her, but I had no time for her. She would try to “help” me get to where I needed to go when I didn’t need her help to begin with.

I got up to The Schnoz.

“Mr. Philmlech,” I almost stuttered realizing the importance of the man to whom I was speaking and in awe of the black man next to him who always wins.

“Whaddaya want, kid?”

He called me “kid”. That had to be some sort of compliment playing to my unnaturally youthful appearance.

“I- I…” now I was stuttering.

“Spit it out, we’ve got progress to make, and you’re holding us back with your cheap talk,” everything he said flowed like rivers of literature and ringed of truth. As always, he was right. I had to pull myself together.

I had to make it fast, too. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Podd Tortune. He hated me. I tried to help him once, but it went bad. He blamed e for the whole mess. He was talking to one of the pit bosses at another table and pointing in my direction. That couldn’t be good news for me.

“I’m looking for a missing politician. He was here earlier tonight at this table.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know the one you’re looking for,” he said. I knew he would know.

“Look,” he got serious and lost his smile for a moment and pointed his finger at me. “Everyone knows that when you’re looking for a missing politician, you always start at the political graveyard. It’s at the edge of town. Why don’t you start there?”

At that moment, I felt a large, meaty hand on my shoulder. I knew my time here had expired. A vice from behind me said, “We don’t allow weasels and rats in here.”

I turned around to see that the big meaty hand belonged to the chief of security Limon Seis. A smart man knew not to mess with him. I am not a smart man.

The man talking was standing next to Seis. He owned the joint. Doe Jeters was the most powerful man in the room, and everyone knew it. I could see Podd Tortune looking at me from his table across the room with a smug look on his face.

“So what am I?” I said trying to act cool.

“What?” Jeters was probably annoyed, but he was even cooler than I was. It never showed.

“You said that you don’t allow rats and weasels in here. Am I a rat or a weasel?”

“Yes.” It was the last word I heard before all went black.

A Bizzare Dream

Last night I decided to sleep at my actual house on Hill Street, if only because my neighbors in Mount Adams are starting to wonder where I really do live, since I'm never there. Since Rumpke comes on Monday morning, I felt this could be a great opportunity to be seen among the commoners dragging my (empty) trash can to the curb at 6am.

So I spent the night alone in my bachelor pad, and I gotta tell you... it's creepy sleeping in a big house by yourself.

Maybe that's why I'm awake at this awful hour, typing another blog entry. You see, I had this strange dream that woke me up, and now I can't get back to sleep. So I fired up my trusty laptop to write down all of the details from my dream.

Bear with me. It's rather long, but I need some help interpreting it. I'm going to post it in three parts.

Spam Sade and the Case of the Missing Politician (Part 1)

It was a dark and stormy night. At least I dreamed it was. The dream was in black and white.

I was sitting in the chief’s chair. He was out of town on an investigation. When he’s out, I stop doing the coffee and typing and sit in his chair. I like the way it feels. Someday I hope to be sitting in the big chair for real and not just pretending.

There was a knock at the door.

I walked from the office into the other room that served as the lobby. Peering at the wooden door with the frosted glass, I was staring at the words YCNEGA EVITCETED EDAS MAPS. It was like looking at some alien code.

I could see the silhouette of a woman through the frosted window. It could have been a very well dressed man with a frilly shirt and a large hat with a bow, but my own detective powers pushed that fleeting thought out of my mind. I realized that this might be a dame who needed the help of Spam Sade.

I would have to do. My big chance.

I opened the door, and I saw what most men would think was a beautiful woman. She was crying. I knew just what to do. I acted.

“Uh, ma’am. You can get toilet paper out of the bathroom down the hall to help with your crying. My God, your mascara is running!” I was suave. Spam would be proud.

“I need your help, Mr. Sade,” she balled as she fell into my arms, weak from her misery. It must have taken all she had to get here. I had to be the gentleman.

I lowered her to the floor.

I pulled up a chair, sat down and started my first investigation.

“What seems to be the problem, Ma’am?” I was brilliant.

“I – I’ve lost a politician,” she bellowed.

“OK, where did you last see him?”

“Down at the speakeasy. We were playing the roulette table when he disappeared.”

“Ma’am,” I said in my coolest, calmest voice. “Can I have your name?”

“Dr-Driget Boherty.”

“OK, Dr. Boherty…” she interrupted me. I hate that.

“No. I’m not a doctor. It’s just Driget. I was only stuttering.” She seemed bewildered. I began to wonder what kind of client this was. I was wondering if she wasn’t an escapee from the asylum.

“OK, Ms. Boherty, if that is your name. You need to pull yourself together. I’ll head down to the speakeasy to see what evidence I can dig up.”

“Oh thank you, Mr. Sade. I didn’t know where else to go!”

So this is what it was like to be a detective – vulnerable, beautiful, blubbering women seeking you out in their most desperate time of need for help. Help which they would do anything – ANYTHING – to get.

Pathetic. I knew right away this first case of mine would be my last. I’ll let Spam handle these weak females.

But first, I had to check out the speakeasy.

As I closed the door behind me, I looked at the frosted glass from the hallway. The letters finally made sense to me. After days, months and hours of studying them, they never made sense, but now I could clearly see “SPAM SADE DETECTIVE AGENCY.”

I guess I have finally graduated. Is this what they mean by having a “Private Eye?” I could finally read the detective code.

Phil Heimlich Killed Marcus Fiesel

Inflammatory, I know. But true nonetheless.

OK. So maybe he isn't the one who wrapped the little tyke in duct tape and threw him the closet for two days without food or water. And, yes, well... fine. He's not the one who sent police on a wild goose chase for two weeks. And OK...admittedly Phil Heimlich did NOT take little Marcus's body to a remote farm and burn the corpse.

But make no mistake about it. Phil Heimlich KILLED Marcus Fiesel.

How? You ask?

Heimlich is a Republican. And we all know that Republicans vote against children so they can line their greedy pockets with the cash they don't spend on medicine and food for kids like Marcus Fiesel.

Republicans like Phil Heimlich vote to slash budgets and starve sick children so they die at the hands of evil foster parents. I believe it with all my heart. If I didn't, I wouldn't have written this thinly disguised campaign piece in an effort to convict Phil Heimlich in the court of public opinion.

On November 7th, a vote for Phil Heimlich is a vote for the legalized killing of foster children.

Save the Children. Vote for me, David Pepper.

David Answers His E-Mail

Whoa... I just woke up from a horrible dream. A bizarre nightmare...like some strange horror movie I'd seen before, where I was intimately familiar with the characters, yet I didn't know the ending.

Yes. I know it's 2 o'clock in the afternoon, but give me a break. Campaigning is hard work and I'm very tired.

I'm going to need some time to sort out this dream thing before I tell you about it. Maybe in a week or so... In the meantime, let's see what's in my email inbox...

__________________________________________

To: david@davidpepper.com
Fr: phil@hamiltoncounty.gov

RE: See attachment

David, I saw this picture and thought of you.

Sincerely,

Phil Heimlich
President, Hamilton County Commission

Attachment: courtverdict.jpg





To: phil@hamiltoncounty.gov
Fr: David Pepper

RE: See attachment

Dear Phil,

I am not gay. Just because I live in my parent's basement, I have no wife or girlfriend, and I've spent a lot of time in San Fransisco doesn't make one homosexual.

Nevertheless, I offer you the following attachment as a "peace offering."

Enjoy,

David Pepper

Attachment: nukefinger.jpg



_______________________________________________

To: david@davidpepper.com
Fr: johnpepper@disney.com

RE: Fatherly Advice

Son,

I am so proud of you for taking on that sonofabitch Phil Heimlich. The campaign is going to get very rough in these last few weeks, and I want you to be ready.

I am haunted by the memory of the time you ran for Mayor and lost to that sonofabitch Mark Mallory, and I don't want it to happen again. When Mallory implied that you were a homosexual Nazi racist, I don't think you reacted very well. Don't let Heimlich bait you into crying in public like Mallory did. He made a mockery of you.

Love,

Dad

P.S. I left your allowance on the kitchen counter. Don't spend it all on one TV station.


To: johnpepper@disney.com
Fr: David Pepper

RE: Fatherly Advice

Dad,

Thanks for the kind words. I promise I won't screw up this time!

Love,

David
__________________________________

To: david@davidpepper.com
Fr: bridget@davidpepper.com

RE: Embarrassing Photo

David,

There is a photo circulating on the internet of you posing with Frisch's Big Boy. If true, this could be very embarrassing for the campaign. I don't have any clue what to do about it.

-Bridget

P.S. Why is Leslie Ghiz constantly hanging around the campaign office these days?



To: bridget@davidpepper.com
Fr: David Pepper

RE: Embarrassing Photo

Bridget,

I've seen the photo you are talking about and it is indeed embarrassing. I do have a plan though... I'm going to fight fire with fire and "pre-empt" any nefarious use of the photo by making a joke with it right now - long before the voters start paying attention.

David,

P.S. Leslie is hanging around because she has no where else to go. Her own party doesn't even like her. What the heck would you do?
_________________________________

To: david@davidpepper.com
Fr: membersupport@man2man.com

RE: Your recent cancellation

Dear David,

We noticed that you recently canceled your subcription to Man2Man.com. If you were unhappy with our matchmaker services, please fill out the short survey attached to this email.

Thanks,

Phil McKrevis
Customer Service Manager
Man2Man, Inc.


To: membersupport@man2man.com
Fr: David Pepper

RE: Your recent cancellation

How can I cancel if I never subscribed in the first place?

David


To: david@davidpepper.com
Fr: membersupport@man2man.com

RE: Your recent cancellation

Whatever you say, Mr. Pepper.

Phil McKrevis
Customer Service Manager
Man2Man, Inc.
___________________________________________________

To: david@davidpepper.com
Fr: dean@deanofcincinnati.com

RE: Kimball Perry

David,

I've got Perry eating out of my hand. He writes a story about any little thing I give him.

Got any more dirt on Heimlich?

Signed,

The Dean



To: dean@deanofcincinnat.com
Fr: David Pepper

RE: Kimball Perry

Sorry, but since I was forced to admit I would have voted for Heimlich's jail plan, I really don't have much else to attack him on.

We're just going to have to make something up. Think big. Really big. Something like dragging a black mannequin through Over-the-Rhine using a car with "Heimlich for Commissioner" signs on it.

Call Kimball and tell him you heard a rumor about that. Then execute the plan later this week.

David
________________________________

To: david@davidpepper.com
Fr: MayorMcCheese@cincinnaticitycouncil.gov

RE: Thinking of you

Mr. Pooper,

I made this picture just for you.

Sincerely,

Mark Mallory

Attachment: readout.jpg





________________________________

To: MayorMcCheese@cincinnaticitycouncil.gov
Fr: David Pepper

RE: Thinking of you

Up yours, Mallory. Next time I see you, I'm kicking your ass. And your bodyguard's too.

David
_______________________________

That's enough reader mail for one day. As you can see, the gay jokes are really getting old. I know I deserve it, but I'm not really gay. I know, pink website and all that. Yeah yeah. Enough already. I'm perfectly comfortable with my sexuality whatever it's orientation.

Until tomorrow, this is David Pepper signing off.

The Call

It was one of those mornings – the type where you just like to lie in bed as long as possible until you absolutely have to get up.

I could see the sunlight cracking through the beveled glass in the basement window. Mom put the Marvin the Martian valance around it like I asked last week. My basement bedroom is just about complete.

I was thinking about having another half hour in bed with my Aladdin comforter. I love rubbing the lamp right in the middle of the sheet. I was just dozing when I heard the familiar ring of my Disney phone singing “Someday My Prince Will Come.”

I pick up the phone.

“What the HELL were you thinking with that press release saying Heimlich finally built the jail?” It was Todd. I hate it when he talks to me like that. I can’t wait until I can tell him what to do someday.

“Todd, relax,” I yawned.

“Don’t tell me to relax you little pretty boy. This is a HUGE problem!!”

“What’s the big deal? I got a press release out.”

“What’s the big DEAL? WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?! I’ll tell you what the big deal is, you stupid little officeholder wannabe. The big deal is that you’ve basically said that Phil Heimlich is the leader you’ve been trying to say he isn’t. That’s the big deal.” Todd’s shouting was really irritating me now.

“Listen, Todd, if you didn’t want to make Phil look like a successful leader, why did you vote to put it on the ballot and make it unanimous?” I was probably a little petulant in my tone, but who is Todd Portune to talk to me like that? My dad is Disney!

“Don’t you EVER question me. I have my reasons. I was backed into a corner, and partially because of comments you made. Did you or did you not say you would vote to put Heimlich’s plan on the ballot?”

“I said that after the vote. You can’t use that against me.” I had him there.

“You don’t GET it. It’s been your whole attitude all along after your stupid casino idea crashed and burned. I couldn’t be left hanging out there all alone,” I could tell Todd was getting angry now. “This is why you were rejected by voters last November, then rejected by the Democratic Party when you went for State Senator. You are clueless, and you have nothing to offer.”

“Listen, Todd. If you want to run my campaign, give Bridget a call. Take me out of the loop. I’m tired of running for office. You get me elected, I’ll be your second vote for anything you want. Just don’t ever ask me to do anything. You know how I don’t like to think and don’t like to work.”

“Fine. People like you make me sick, David. I’ll do this for you. I’ll run your campaign. Hell, I’ll even pay attention to Bridget, which is something you refuse to do. But when you lose this fall, I do not want to hear you whining. I don’t even want to see you running for office again.”

CLICK.

The phone was dead now, but I wasn’t finished.

“Listen, asshole, you can’t talk to me like that. Just who do you think you are? I can buy and sell you like junk bonds. Don’t you ever threaten me again.”

Then I hung up the phone satisfied that I had the last word.

I rolled over and watched as the blurry light became brighter through the window.

Fright Night on Hill Street

On the way home from the campaign office, I got a call from Andre, my decorator, who asked me to swing by my bachelor pad on Hill Street. You know, the one I bought so people would think I really live in the city.

Speaking of that, when I was interviewed on Channel 9 during the Mayoral campaign it was really embarrassing. The newslady came to my bachelor pad, opened my fridge, only to find it completely empty. Off camera, she said, "You don't really live here, do you David?"

"You caught me," I replied, sheepishly.



"Don't worry," she said with a wink. "when I did the interview with Mark Mallory, his fridge had nothing in it except a tupperware container with moldy macaroni and cheese, a six-pack of Colt .45 and a brown paper sack with the words, "Property of Dale Mallory- KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY SACK."

Ah, yes. Looking back, I think that interview cost me the election...

Anyway, back to Andre. I hired him to decorate my bachelor pad, and he called to tell me he found the perfect piece for my living room. So when I drove up the hill and parked the Audi, I was expecting to find him already there.

He wasn't.

And it was getting dark.

I wanted to go inside, but that place is soooo creepy at night. So I sat in my car singing along to Wham!

No Im never gonna dance again/Guilty feet have got no rhythm/No I'm never gonna dance again/The way I danced with you-u-u.

Suddenly, I noticed a flicker of light from inside my house! My heart leapt in my chest and I felt a surge of adrenaline course it's way through my veins.

Then I relaxed. It must be Andre, right? But why was the whole house dark, except for this small light coming from the living room? I was too scared to move.

Though it's easy to pretend/I know your not a fool/Should've known better than to cheat a friend/And waste the chance that I'd been given

I poked the CD player off with a shaking finger. Silence... My cell phone rang and I nearly soiled myself.

"This is David."

"Hey hot stuff! What are you doing?" It was Leslie Ghiz.

"Wow, am I glad to hear from you!"

"Oh really?" she said, her voice deepening.

"No, no, don't get the wrong idea. I'm outside my place on Hill Street, but there's a light on inside and I think someone is in there."

"Are you sure you didn't leave it on when you left this morning?"

"Leslie, I don't ever come to this place. It's creepy."

"Hmmm. That is odd then. Do you want me to come over and check it out with you?"

"YES!" I said, enthusiastically, bolstered by the thought of having Leslie here as backup.

"Be there in 10 minutes, hun."

I hit the CD player button again.

Time can never mend/The careless whispers of a good friend/To the heart and mind/Ignorance is kind/There's no comfort in the truth/Pain is all you'll find

George Michael seems so tortured in that song. And the video? It's enough to make a grown man cry.

Headlights started up the hill. It was Leslie. A minute later and we were on my porch, my hand trembling as I fumbled with the lock, unsure if I was more nervous about the light on inside my house or at the thought of someone seeing this Republican temptress entering my house with me. The rumors would never cease if someone got the wrong idea. So let me put that notion to bed right now. Read on...

The door opened, and we stepped inside. The answer was immediately obvious. The refrigerator door was wide open and the light was coming from there. Thank goodness it was completely empty, the smell of rotting food would have been unbearable.

"David, look!" Leslie said, pointing to a brown paper-wrapped rectangle leaning against the sofa.

It had a note attached, from Andre. I tore open the package to find a beautiful piece for the living room. Andre said it was from Ancient Greece, and it was PERFECT. Leslie seemed to like it too. She hugged me, and right then, someone came in the front door.

It was Bridget.

She looked up at us in our embrace and she froze, staring at us with this dumbfounded look on her face, her mouth gaping open in apparent shock.

"Oh... sorry," she stammered. Then, quickly turning around, "I... I've got to go."

She ran out.

"Wait!" I shouted. "It's not what you think! Come back Bridget!"

But it was too late. Her car was streaking down the hill so fast she barely made the sharp turn at the bottom.

"Maybe I should go, too," Leslie said.

And she did.

And then I was all alone in my creepy bachelor pad.

I called Andre, who answered on the first ring. "How can I ever thank you for the painting?" I asked...

I'm never gonna dance again/Guilty feet have got no rhythm Though it's easy to pretend/I know your not a fool

TO BE CONTINUED...

Master of Spin

The Master of Spin. That is what my staff has started calling me. I think it has a nice ring to it. I just hope the DJ at the bar I go to doesn’t get jealous.

Damn, I’m good. Heimlich inherited problems from past commissions that even my buddy Todd Portune did nothing about, he’s solved them, and I come along and make him responsible for all of the problems.

And my office staff thinks I’m the man, too! I walked into campaign HQ, which is VERY stylishly furnished (it’s to die for). Bridget and some of the other staffers were sitting around a conference table talking. As soon as I entered, the talking stopped. What RESPECT! I heard someone, I think it was Bridget, whisper something like “all hail the Master of Spin.” I mean, they’ve given me a title that sounds almost like royalty. I feel like Ariel from The Little Mermaid!

I am pretty sure I have everyone fooled about Phil Heimlich. I have to. It’s the only way I can win this thing and get a job where I don’t actually have to work. Could you imagine if voters rejected me AGAIN and my dad made me get a REAL job? I’d be screwed.

I have never felt more powerful even when I was the most popular city councilman in Cincinnati history. How many people have a staff that when they come by, all talking stops? When they come by, they all whisper in awe and utter things like “Master of Spin”, and “Scourge of Truth”?

I even heard one of my staffers compare me to Alexander Dumas (at least I heard him utter the famous author’s last name), writer of the Three Musketeers. Ah the three Musketeers. I love that film. Those guys were really tight. I could be like that with Todd Portune and John Cranley on the Commission. I would even submit to their wills if I could just be part of the club.

I know Leslie wants to be a County Commissioner, but she’s just going to have to wait. I already promised Cranberry that I would help him defeat Pat DeWine after he loses to that conservative kook with the bizarre wig, Steve Chabot. By the way, how can a man with his hair be a Congressman?!? It just makes me want to vomit. I hate when real people get to be politicians. I much prefer the fake, manufactured people like me and Cranberry – we are really the cat’s meow when it comes to politics.

I’ll write again soon. I will be riding this high that I am getting from staff respect for a while. I hope that someday you, dear reader, will be able to experience the type of awe and worship that I get from my staff. Perhaps every peasant voter in the county will someday view me as my workers do.

And like I promised, I'll post a transcript of a conversation with Leslie Ghiz.