The cold wind blew down the eastern seaboard. The blustery November wind signaled a change in America, but was it good change?

The year: 2024.

The newly created Indepublicrat party had taken the election by a landslide. Voter turnout was up over the last election. Nearly four percent of the registered voters had made it to the polls. Candidate of the working class, Richard Head, had run a modest campaign, spending an estimated two hundred dollars but garnered over eighty six percent of the vote. The mandate of the people was clear, we want Dick!

President Elect Head, a fudge packer from Intercourse PA, began his political career in a tavern. After consuming more than a dozen examples of the brew master's select ale, he threw his hat in the ring.

"I'm gonna be the fuckin' president some day," he slurred, "And when I am, all a youse bastards is gonna work for me," he slammed his fist on his barrel chest.

A cheer went up in the bar and so began the grassroots movement to effect change on the Greatest Goddamned Country on Earth!

Benny, the tavern owner, recognized an opportunity when he saw one. As self appointed campaign manager, he took it upon himself to have a few dozen t-shirts printed up. At ten bucks a pop, he figured to triple his money and drum up some much need business for the bar. Dick Head for Prez, the shirts read.

"These Bozos are gonna eat this shit up," he said to himself.

And they did! Everyone had to have one. The shirts sold out with in the hour and a call was made for more. Hundreds, maybe even thousands were spread across the state. Dick Head's face was everywhere. The little tavern packed in the crowds each night just to get a glimpse of the man who would be king.

"No more fuckin' taxes," Dick yelled one night, " Fuck them IRS bastards."

No matter how Dick put it, the tavern goers agreed with his ideals. A buzz began to circulate and it was long before CNN had heard about the man from the little hamlet with the big ideas.

"Mr. Head, I'm Lucy Chow with CNN news. We'd like to come to Intercourse and interview you," Dick heard on the phone.

"Well shit yeah, come on up," he replied.

The cameras were set and the town was all there to watch the famous Miss Chow interview the hometown boy.

"Mr. Head," Miss Chow started.

"Please Lucy, call me Dick," he looked left, "Hey Benny, get Lucy a beer on me," he ordered.

"Alright then Dick. What would you like to tell the American public about why you think you are the man to be the next President of the United States?"

"That's a real good fuckin' question Lucy. The way I see it, somebody gotta stick their nuts on the choppin' block and make this country great again. Nobody's done that for a long, long time."

"Are you at all worried that something from your past might come out and tarnish the Office of the President?" Lucy continued.

"Hell no, everybody's got skeletons in their closet, what's the big deal? The thing is with me though; I ain't got no closet. All my fuck-ups are out in plain sight for every goddamned body to see," Dick announced.

"How do you stand on foreign policy?" Miss Chow asked.

"Well, I always said live and let live. But if somebody wants to stick their finger up my ass, I'm gonna bust that motherfucker off at the stump," Dick pointed a finger straight at the camera, "And I'll tell you another thing. This here finger I got will fit on that goddamn nuclear missile button and I ain't afraid to use it," he warned. Miss Lucy nodded and went on, "Considering the sex scandals of the last four administrations, do we have any reason to worry if you're elected?"

"Nope, I ain't married, so where I dip my wick is my business and I won't lie about it neither. Hell Lucy, if you got the time after this here TV thing..."

Cut to Lucy, "We'll be right back after the break."

"How'd you like to be the first lady?" Dick offered.

"Mr. Head please..."

The pregnant pause lasted the duration of the commercials. But as ridiculous as Dick's question was, Lucy couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to live in the house at 1600 Pennsylvania avenue.

"Were back in five ... Four..." the director announced.

"This is Lucy Chow reporting live from the Indepublicrat national headquarters. Mr. Head, what can you tell me about the newly formed Indepublicrat party?"

"There ain't too much to it. The rich is entitled to their own money. The poor folk ought to have more, and the guys in the middle they shouldn't have to pay for it," Dick stated.

"Can you explain that?"

"Well it ain't rocket science Lucy. The rich people had to get their money somehow. Some made it fair and square, some inherited theirs while others down right stole it. However it happened, it's a good thing. It keeps the American dream alive. If we all got paid the same, nobody would have a reason to work anymore."

"But what about the poor?"

"They oughta get a job," Dick responded.

"I mean the poor that can't work or that have special needs?"

"Well you got me there Lucy, but I got an answer for that too. It seems like to me that before we set off to feed the hungry in the rest of the world, maybe we gotta look out our own back door and feed them people first."

"It can't be that simple Mr. Head," she scoffed.

"Why not?"

"Common sense..."

"Shit, we ain't seen that in this country for over two hundred years."

"One last question Mr. Head. We at CNN would like to know how the viewers can send donations to your campaign?"

"Don't want no donations. Keep your dang money and buy a bum a hamburger."

"But Mr. Head, your opponents reportedly will spend a half billion dollars each to be elected."

"Yeah, and ain't that about the stupidest fuckin' thing you ever heard. Why would anyone in their right mind spend five hundred million dollars just to get a job that pays five hundred thousand? Ain't you seein' somethin' wrong with this picture?"