Announcing My Candidacy for POTUS 2020

By Bob “Honest Bob” Bob Iozzia (call me “Bob”)


My fellow and female Americans, I can no longer observe from the sidelines our country going to Hell in a hand basket. Therefore, I resolve to be an active participant in the journey.  BTW, we’re going to need a bigger basket. Just kidding—I want to Make America Good Enough Again.

Consequently, I am using this avenue to announce my 2020 candidacy for the office of President of the United States of America. To resurrect a successful 2016 campaign rhetorical question, “Whatta ya got to lose?” Never mind that the literal answer to that non-question is, “Everything.”

Because none of the current political parties fully represent my morals, mores and mood swings, I am commandeering a virtually-extinct organization’s name. This group also doesn’t speak to my values, but I like its handle for the irony/comic relief potential. Since there is a modern iteration of this party, I will distinguish my version from it by augmenting the name. I will be running as a Good Whig. I hope to initially attract national attention because I am a bald man running under the Good Whig banner. Yes, I know I will be taking license with the pun when references to me and the party are written. But when spoken, “Whig” and “wig” are pronounced and heard the same unless the speaker is one of those annoying people like Stewie of TV’s “Family Guy” who enunciates silent “aitches.”

I hope to select a Vice Presidential candidate who will appeal to as many special interest do-gooders as possible. Since this will be a challenging task, I request that all of you troll for a bisexual Afro-Latin-Asian-American woman with disabilities. Her religion or lack of is not important, except the time is probably still not kosher for a Muslim. No offense intended. As-salāmu ʿalaykum.

I admit right up front that I will be fluid when it comes to transparency. There exists sensitive information that should never see the light of day, especially personal evidence that could prove embarrassing. In keeping with this policy, I will not expound except to say, “Three cheers for the Statute of Limitations.” Someone should erect a statue to the statute; it could be called the Statue of Statute, or SOS for short. (I bet many of you thought I was going to say it could be called the Statue of Limitations. Psych!)

By now, the picayune among you will have noticed several clichés and old saws (there’s another one) in this declaration. I have three replies. Since discretion is the better part of something I can’t remember right now, I will keep them to myself, but I don’t mind disclosing one of them is a suggestion to perform an act on oneself that is physically impossible. Hint: it ain’t an appendectomy.

No one likes to be a statistic, including me. To that end, I will not participate in any formal presidential debates, since all but one debater loses the election. Bad odds. Duh.

I also will not employ any inane/vague/meaningless campaign slogans in spite of their historical successes. They are designed to bedazzle the voting public and distract them from flaws of the candidate—much like a fresh coat of thick paint on a home’s surfaces can mask rot, water intrusion evidence and even stink. If forced by the campaign gestapo to have a slogan, I will select one from another millennium: “A Chicken in Every Pot.”  I like chicken (sorry, vegans) and formerly smoked pot (sorry, Mom). Even if it makes no sense, it’s a warm and fuzzy sentiment that this country needs right now, let’s face it.

I believe in progress, so that makes me a Progressive/Liberal, and I will liberally mete out justice with the vengeance of the Old Testament’s version of its tyrannical god. I can’t and won’t tolerate intolerance. I will hold to the fire all feet belonging to all small-minded exclusionists.  Since I have an aversion to walking in someone’s shoes, let alone desire to touch their feet—literally or figuratively—this task will be the purview of the Department of Transportation, who shall direct message me on Twitter at the conclusion of each tootsie roast.

It baffles and enrages me that men continue to marginalize and abuse women. Most men’s mothers are women who incubated them for nine months or so before dry-heaving their big-ass heads and flailing bodies through a small female orifice. Men, this would be like you pissing out a golf ball that has a Mexican jumping bean inside it. This alone makes them saints. These ladies sacrificed much to raise their boys, including stress-aging away their prime during the teenage years. And just when the sons evolve into decent facsimiles of human beings, the ingrates abandon their mothers for younger women, otherwise known as starter-wives.

Most men claim to revere their moms and are in awe of their expertise in practically everything not related to cars and pornography, so they have first-hand knowledge of the priceless worth and unmatched capabilities of the gender. It’s time for these hypocrites to stop shackling women and using them as punching bags unless they want an epic foot roast, courtesy of POTUS 46.

Don’t get me started on race. Although I am not condoning it, I wouldn’t blame black people if they rounded up all the whites and sent them back to where they originated: Africa. Surprise!

I believe in science (but don’t like science fiction unless it contains gratuitous nudity). The documented evidence of environmental deterioration is no joke; its deniers are, so they better get serious or else be buried beneath an avalanche of their ignorant, corporate-supporting lies.

Whatever health benefits and plans Congress and federal officials enjoy at the public’s literal expense shall also be gifted to all citizens except those who like science fiction and dislike gratuitous nudity. Attendees and organizers of sci-fi conventions will also be denied coverage even if their costumes incorporate any sort of nudity. Jesus, grow the hell up, nerds.

I will judiciously exercise my right of issuing Executive Orders. The first will be a ban on grown men wearing those hideous pork pie hats. If an adult insists on looking ridiculous, he shall be forced to stare at his small-hat-wearing self in a mirror for three hours per day for one week.  If he still doesn’t get the point, he will be tattooed with a clown face and relocated to West Virginia. For those of you who think this punishment is too lenient, you obviously have never set foot in West Virginia.

Immigration is a hot issue, and as a presidential candidate, I need to pay it the lip service is warrants. So, I propose that any captured undocumented person be forced to wear a pork pie hat (to be paid for by Mexico, no matter the country of origin of the “illegal”).

LGBT rights shall be the same as for straight people unless they wear pork pie hats, deny climate change, and/or like science fiction without gratuitous nudity.

I will have rotating cabinet secretaries, with the head honchos, deputy honchos and under-honchos rotating positions every few months. I know this system was a failure for baseball’s 1960s Oakland Athletics, but managing a baseball team is difficult … at least, it was in the 60s. Since the word “Secretary” can be misleading when referring to an administrator, they will be known as “Ministers.”  This can also be misleading, but in a good way. Since the so-called Christian Right (who seldom are) is largely responsible for America’s slide toward Hell, perhaps they will be faked/blissed-out by the title of Minister to the point of thinking they’ve won the war against freedom and can shut the hell up and retreat to the church pew-sniffing sanctuary of their pathetic, myopic world.

I am “Honest” Bob Iozzia and I approve this message, which is sort of like saying “I once said and I agree…” Anyway, my fellow and female Americans, let’s work together to make our country good enough again—but as POTUS, only I will get paid for your work.

Thank you (I approved this thank you).

Whig out, America.






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If I had a dog, I’d give it a distinctive name. Not a clichéd dog name like Rover, Fido or Gustav Klimt. Not a JK Rowling name like Harry, Ron or Cribbage. Not an old west name like Old Yeller, Ol’ Blue or Old Barren Toothless Hag Wrangler Jane.

Nope, none of those names for my dog. Nor would I choose a name I initially thought was clever but would come to regret soon after the cur got used to it. Names like Snoop, Hot or Sir Poops A Lot.

I’d name my dog something that was distinctive and reflected my sometimes immature sense of humor. I’d call my dog Kiss My Ass.

I can’t wait to walk it in a bucolic park and have all types of people come up to us and say, “Oh, what a cute dog. What’s its name?” All sorts of people—horny mothers with snotty young illegitimate children in tow, a flock of nuns hiding stolen hams under their nun dresses, and the so-called “President” of the United States—would get the same answer to “What’s its name?”

“Kiss My Ass,” I’d always answer—especially loudly to the so-called “President” (perhaps in an ALL CAPS tweet at 6 a.m.)—and then casually walk away as we head to an unregistered pet broker to purchase a cat.

I’ve got some really immature names in mind for a pussycat. LOL. OMG. ROFL. YMCA.


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Add the entire package of the recently-purchased quinoa to your kitchen garbage can because no matter how and with what ingredients it is cooked, it will taste like who did it and ran.

Prep Time: 2 seconds

Cook Time: NA

Serves: You right

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There once was a man from Nantucket … who moved to Arizona because he developed a seafood allergy and could no longer stand the way everyone sounded like either the Gorton’s fisherman or upper-crusters from 1930s-era films.

Early in his attempt to assimilate in Arizona, he alienated many locals who hated how he smelled like fish and spoke like an upper-cruster from 1930s-era films. Now that was an ironic kettle/black boomerang if ever there was one!

Not wishing to risk a mental breakdown by dealing with the problem by himself, he swallowed his pride and for once consulted his imaginary wife, whose name changed from fantasy to fantasy. Sometimes, she was the bespectacled pharmacist Sheila with neck tattoos and spikey black hair with purple tips. Sometimes she was the perpetually-randy Janeece, a gynecologist’s assistant who occasionally liked to bring her work home.

This day, she was former nun and current community college adjunct professor of English For Illegals Mary Elizabeth Margaret Catherine, a bit dazed and confused for having just been in a minor traffic accident. He explained his concerns to her but became agitated when she couldn’t focus due to the trauma of her fender-bender (and being imaginary, to boot).

All of this rambling is my clumsy way of wishing you all a HAPPY THANKSGIVING.

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