As y’all might recall, the last time you heard from me, I was jawing about running for president as a write-in candidate. Well, I officially threw my cowboy hat into the ring. Actually, the wind blew my hat clean off my noggin while I was on my tractor, and it landed smack-dab on a fresh cow patty. Well, if that weren’t appropriate for this current presidential campaign, I don’t know what is.
Now, I don’t know diddly-squat about getting my name on the ballot. Some fella two barstools down from me said I need to file. I looked at my neatly chewed fingernails and thought they looked just fine. He might’ve been talkin’ about my jagged toenails that do indeed need a good filing, but I can’t figure out how he could see them through dirty bullhide.
Now, to get elected as a write-in candidate, I need all y’all to tell folks who know how to read and write to vote for me. Tell ‘em to take a pencil and a sticky note with my name on it, and scribble it on the ballot. If it’s one of them fancy electronic voting machines, I don’t know where to jot down your write-in candidate. Perhaps you can use a crayon and write on the video screen or carve my name on the voting booth with your pocketknife.
I see Donald Trump won’t disclose his tax returns, like he has something to hide. With me being an honest man, well, as honest as a bull-shootin’ son-of-a-gun true Texan can be, I will be glad to reveal my latest tax returns if I could find ‘em. Usually, I get so riled up doing my tax return and paying even more of my hard-earned money to those bumbling buffoons currently running the country, I have to spend the rest of tax day sipping on my blood pressure medicine. I can’t recall much about where I filed my tax papers, but I do have vague memories of sittin’ around a campfire and conferring with my CPA from Beam, Daniels and Crow, Inc.
If you’re concerned about my email account, there’s no need to fret over that. All correspondence from lonely women, Nigerian princes and manufacturers of magic love potions go straight to my spam folder and promptly get deleted. I rarely send emails to my friends since most of ‘em ain’t smart enough to know how to get their own Yahoo account, so there’s no worry of me sending important documents to Russian hackers.
Another fella down the bar from me said I have to reveal how much money was donated for my campaign. How many Os are in “zero”? I did have a friend buy me a beer, so I better disclose that so Fox News doesn’t come down hard on me. Other than that, I haven’t raised a cent for my campaign. If you were to look in my war chest, you’d only find ratty, old flannel shirts, dingy long johns and a few moth balls.
Okay, enough said. I need to hit the campaign trail and get back up on my swiveling soapbox before happy hour ends. I apparently need to drum up some more supporters since I don’t see my name being mentioned in any poll by Survey Monkey. And if any of y’all have money to burn, don’t hesitate donating it to my campaign. Or as my wife calls it, my bar tab.
Clint Younts has a following, but we don’t believe cows can vote. He might –might – get the votes of his daughters and sons-in-law. As for his wife? That’s only a maybe.