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I am Michael Dorfburger and I don’t approve of anything! Period.

Shivering and stamping my feet on a soggy, freezing morning, I stand outside amidst an endless drizzle at the Summit Hill Polling Station. In one hand, I hold an open striped golf umbrella, in the other, sample ballots. It’s 10 o’clock in the morning and this cold rain is a killer. Yes, the weather report said “rain” on Election Day, but I didn’t expect it to be this much rain. My backyard looks like a lake.

Bratty third-graders resembling midgets in tiny red, yellow or blue rubber rain apparel march in a ragged line around the basketball court of the elementary school. Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup! They march around once. They march around twice. Thrice. The Future Army of America is on parade, everybody! By the time they grow up, I am sure that we’ll be sending them off to fight another war. America is exceptional that way. Damn kids.

I’m on the ballot, but that doesn’t stop me from poll watching. Or maybe poll watching doesn’t schtopp me from being on the ballot. Don’t get me wrong, I am not on the ballot ballot. My name is on the little yellow 4” by 6” paper ballots on a black folding table in the gym next to the big table containing the big ballots. Fuckers!

I am running for president of the local Civic Association. People have the opportunity— If they so desire, mind you! Not Mandatory! — to check off a name from the list of stalwart candidates vying for this august position. Name’s like:

Herman Chekhov

Michael Dorfburger (That’s me!)

Marvin Kavanofski

Seth Oscarson

Arranged alphabetically. This has been a knockdown drag-out campaign with no holds barred. Just witness the attack ads!

“Michael Dorfburger is running for Civic Association President, but what you don’t know…” intones a professional announcer, while black and white clips of me flit across the screen. Making me look grim. “…is that Michael Dorfburger’s feet smell like Limburger cheese! Yes, that’s right, folks! Limburger cheese. Vote against cheesy feet! Elect Seth Oscarson as Civic Association President. Paid for by The Parents of Seth Oscarson.”

And that’s one of the less malicious ads. Another boner:

“Herman Chekhov says he served in the Gulf War. Do we really want A STONE COLD KILLER as our Civic Association President??? I think not! How’s about Marvin Kavanofski for president of the Civic Association? After all, he paid for this ad. As his announcer, I really oughtta endorse him, even if— you know— he’s a little bit of a shady character. This advertisement paid for by Frenemies of Marvin Kavanofski.”

This morning, I drove along a slick and shiny Vassily Boulevard to this polling station. There’s very little traffic on Vassily at 6 a.m. Mostly, the problem is potholes. That was four hours ago. I don’t even want to think about what the traffic will be like when I finish freezing my arse off here! Peak rush hour. Screwed again, dear hearts!

“Didn’t stand too close to your razor this morning, eh?” asks a cheery housewife, coming to the polling station to vote. Hiding under a black and white polka dot umbrella not big enough to keep a duck dry, her red hair is tucked under a pink scarf. This is the vice chairperson of the local chapter of the Kick Ass Party, an outlier whose program includes such incendiary delights as deporting all Green Card holders, abolishing the 2020 and 2024 presidential elections, making German the official second language of the good ol’ U.S.A. and the reading of Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf as a basic requirement if you want to live in West Blueberry County.

Personally, I feel this takes Germanophilia a snippet too far, but no one seems inclined to discuss it. I expect this to be one of the items listed in next year’s referendum, “German as an official second language.” Our Landkreis has many descendants of German origin.

Scheisse! Unlike Donald Trump, I’m halfway to Deutschland and I haven’t even finished a quarter of the things on my bucket list. The Trump family came from Germany, too, you know! Southern Germany. Wine country. Genteel and buggy.

When in my twenties, I had a 16-year-old girlfriend named Gwendolyn. Big eyes and sweaty palms. I mean, we never did anything, although she was a make-out freak with a gloriously busy tongue. We used to go to Frankie’s Seafood and gorge on lobster. I don’t think she ever told her parents that she and I were an item. I didn’t want to get married, so, basically, I figured that a hopelessly flirty, underage teenage girlfriend was a surefire way to avoid the marriage trap.

“You did what?” asks Seth Oscarson when someone in the audience brings it up at the Candidates’ Debate. Seth’s face turns beet red in his excitement over discovering an indictable offense that could sink my campaign.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I mansplain.

What I really want to discuss is Donald Trump’s use of Air Force One to impress the crowds at his rallies. Many coats of Aero Cosmetics’ Wash Wax have been applied to keep Air Force One shiny. My younger bro Philip, an Air Force pilot, has flown Air Force One. It was empty at the time, of course. Phil is part of the maintenance crew.

My campaign chauffeur Fergie drives me to my campaign rallies. I arrive in a robin’s egg blue 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air Convertible. It has the same effect as The Donald in his skyscraper airplane. It tells people that I have the juice. (The Tanner family, Greg and Meg, have been kind enough to loan me this dreamboat of a car until November 7^th.)

At my rallies, people hoot and throw things, mostly paper airplanes fashioned out of my campaign literature. “Now, now…” I admonish the crowd, which tends to be rather rowdy: Mostly customers from O’Keefe’s Tavern. Local citizenry who’ve poured one too many lime and lagers down the old hatch.

“Lock him up!” they’ll start chanting.

“Yeah. Cool beans,” I agree. “Lock who up?”

“Lock you up!” shouts/snarls a bearded dude in a plaid lumberjack’s shirt and a bad haircut.

“Lock you up! Lock you up!” shouts the crowd lustily.

Nationally, President Trump is stirring up passions among our darker angels. Do we still want a country of love or do we want a country of hate? I ask you! Condos in the Bahamas are available!

A disciple of Newt “The Hoot” Gingrich, I call my political agenda Kontrakt v’ Amerika. That’s Russian for Kontrakt v’ Amerika. “We need more Metro parking!” I exclaim, kind of desperate to cut through the preliminaries and get to my message. “Our community could do with sodium street lamps, too, you know. I take a dim view of our current outdoor illumination.”

“If that’s your idea of a joke, you need to get some better material!” shouts another heckler.

“This country is being overrun! OVERRUN, I TELL YOU!” I scream like Adolf Hitler in a steam bath. Spittle flying, I go for the jugular. “Hear ye, hear ye!” I declare. “From this day forth, let us put a stop to this unsightly invasion! Vermin, that’s what I call them. VERMIN! They have no place in America. None! This cannot go on. On my property alone, I have no fewer than four roach hotels! Four! Count ’em! I am putting the Insect Kingdom on notice. DEET will out!”

This is always a crowd pleaser. We’re each and every one of us battling the elements for all we are worth. When I so much as see a black, furry mole, I squint like Clint Eastwood and shout “Get off my lawn!” Exercising my rights under the Second Amendment, I then shoot at him with my daughter’s yellow plastic dart gun. It has big, red, rubber-tipped darts. Very effective at scaring moles.

But enough about me. PUT ON A RAINCOAT & GO VOTE! It’s never too late to make your voice heard. Well, at least until the polls close.

Every country gets the politicians it deserves.

Blood and soil will not replace us! The only thing George Soros is behind are the drapes in his mansion. A ring of pizza chefs has established itself at Comet Ping Pong. (Full disclosure: It’s a pizzeria.) The caravan contains Middle Eastern gang members posing as thugs! In the Meet Someone Column of my mother’s Jewish magazine, MS-13 stands for “Mostly Single No. 13.” She sounds attractive. Maybe I should date her. My bro Phil drives a Dodge Caravan. Does that make him any less patriotic? The Iranians killed Khashoggi so he couldn’t reveal to Russian hackers the secret location of Bill and Hillary’s emails regarding Vince Foster, Whitewater and Monica Lewinsky’s taste in cigars.

Like the Clintons, I am also available to make speeches before large corporations and foreign delegations. Also for $200,000 a pop. And I, too, can really use the money. If elected, I promise to create a foundation to be used as my personal slush fund.

A vote for General Motors is a vote for the USA! (Wait, is the general running again this election cycle? How is Mrs. Motors doing? Still baking those yummy cream pies for the Women’s Bizarre? Send my regards to little Stacy Motors. She’s hot!)

The real Donald John Trump has been abducted by space aliens from the planet Uranus. We are dealing with an evil clone that has been sent to DESTROY ALL HUMANS!!!

Say what?

No one is responsible for the contents of this post. Bots rule! Nyaaa-ha-ha-ha!

Responsible, responsible. This is a pretty irresponsible post.

In our next installment, we’ll hear young Chip say…