I met my future wife during the War Against the Great Red North. I was leading forces up into Maine to slaughter the few remaining Mounties who refused to give in and it was then, while I was reducing the invaders to a quivering mass of Commie goo, that I caught her eye.

There she stood, her hair blowing in the wind, ankle deep in yak intestines (she was the local butcher, you see). I looked at her and she looked right back at me. There was a certain fire in her eyes, like the itching and burning that every soldier knows all too well. I tossed aside the disembodied head I was holding and sauntered on over to her.

Few words were spoken...but they were the right words.

We made sweet, sweet love that night and on into the morning (64 times in total). A few months later we were wed and I moved her and her butcher shop with me to Washington. I had long since move my permanent residence to the nation's capitol. At the time, I figured I could go one of two ways. I could go ahead and be the in-your-face sort of leader and take my rightful place at the head of the army, or I could head off into the sunset and be the mysterious, quiet leader who's mere existence gives comfort to the little people. It turns out the first option lends itself to much more lucrative endorsement deals, and so I moved into my new home in D.C., "The Yahoo.com Command Center".

I soon discovered that my wife was as ambitious as I, a veritable fountain of passion and energy. She was a butcher, it's true, but her heart lay with something bigger...something grand. With a flash of the eyes and a toss of the head (not to mention a finger snap or two), she made it clear that she didn't marry me to sit at home, bake cookies, and gut the four legged...she wanted more.

A finger poked me in the chest (her finger, in case that wasn't clear) and a very pointed directive followed the finger poke. Get successful or get packin' (it did little good to point out that the title to our modest home was in my name).

It wasn't so much that I had the drive to be president, but that she had the drive to be first lady.

The campaign would be best described as whirlwind. My opponent was another war hero, but he was lucky enough to lose three of his four limbs in combat, and so the sympathy vote was hard to overcome.

His campaign centered around his one remaining arm.

My campaign was driven by the prevailing anti-Canadian fervor. A tag-line of "Our bacon will remain long, thin, and crispy! Now and forever!" was the exclamation point at the end of every campaign speech and "Death to the pointy-hatted" and "Whack the Yaks" adorned the lapels of each and every member of my campaign. I plied the voters with fear, a technique unheard of in previous elections (I even considered a "color-coded" system to rate the Canadian threat level, from happy white all the way up to Bolshevik red, but decided that would be going a bit too far).

Turns out the sympathy vote goes a little farther than I thought.

who knew?

Next: Is it really reasonable to expect a one limbed man to survive for long?