I kiss your babies!

They say a week's a long time in politics, but then they're a bunch of lying bastards. A week's exactly the same length of time for politicians as it is for Doctors, Lifeguards, Monkey Trainers, and Zombie Lords of the Underworld. I think if you're a nipple polisher the time probably flies by though. So a week's a longer time in politics than it is in the field of nipple polishing, otherwise it's exactly the same length.

However, it's exactly the right length of time for people to become embroiled in the most twisted kind of scandals and sleaze involving three nuns, a roll of duct tape, and some naked goldfish. Now far be it from me to lend any credence to the stories you may have seen in the tabloids* about the other candidates' involvement. But let me just say that there's no smoke without fire and leave it at that. You're all adults, after all, you can make your own minds up. Unless you've forgotten to wear your tinfoil helmets, in which case your brain is mine! ALL MINE! BWAHAHAHAHAHAH... *ahem*

"But," I hear you cry, as you rapidly line your hat with Bacofoil, "how did you manage to come upon a device capable of controlling our brainwaves?"
Funny you should ask that (well, not that funny when you consider that I used my brainwave controlling machine to make you ask that very question as an excuse for me to tell you another anecdote designed to make you think that voting for me is actually a good thing) because a couple of years ago I stumbled on a plot to take over the world.

Now normally I wouldn't be telling you about this, what with the potential mass hysteria and panic, but as it's Friday: what the hell. There I was, minding my own business lurking in Anne Widdicombe's wheely-bin with a pair of binoculars and some Greek yoghurt when I overheard a pair of squeaky voices discussing global domination. I looked round and who do I see, but a pair of cockroaches called Norman and Colin (you've probably met one of their 300,000,000 brothers and sisters). Well, long story short I disguised myself as a woodlouse and followed them back to their secret underground lair.

Me and Zargle N'Phing'ig'ning'tick-tick-tickP'legm, he's smiling because I haven't yet crushed his spirit and depressed the hell out of himAnd you'll never guess who I bumped into there: Zargle N'Phing'ig'ning 'tick-tick-tick P'legm, leader of the Cockroach Liberation Army and celebrity chef (you've probably seen him on 'Can't Spread Disease In A Fast Food Joint, Won't Spread Disease In A Fast Food Joint'). We got to talking about his upcoming invasion plans and he was telling me how the cockroach legions would rise up on Monday and overthrow the humans using this really neat machine they'd made that sends out 'thinky' rays to mess with our minds. I said Monday wasn't really good for us, how about Wednesday instead?

Well, Zargle (we've been on first name terms ever since I lent him the money to open up a falafel stand in Milton Keynes) said he couldn't do Wednesday on account of his line dancing class, how about Thursday? In the end, the only day we could both come up with was a Tuesday three weeks away for the overthrow of mankind.

Then I said, "You know, I'm really proud of the way you've overcome your difficulties to get into the position where you can wipe human beings from the face of the planet. Good for you."
And Zargle said, "Why thank you! I always... Hey, what do you mean 'difficulties'?"
"Well, your nomenclature's always been a bit of a drawback, hasn't it?"
"Nothing wrong with our taxonomy," he said, getting a little huffy, "Insecta -- Pterygota -- Neoptera -- Dictyoptera -- Blattodea. What the hell's wrong with that?"
"No, not your scientific classification, your name: cockroaches."
"What the hell's wrong with being called a cockroach?"
"There's no need to get all defensive."
"I'm not being defensive!"
"Look, I'm just saying that it can't have been easy being named after male genitalia. OK?"
"I wasn't named after--"
"Dude," I said, placing a friendly hand on his carapace, "it's OK."
"But we're not!"
"You're basically knobroaches."
"We... But..." And at that point he started to go all red in the mandibles. "I didn't..."
"Don't worry, if it doesn't bother anyone else that you're named after our sinful man-winkies, why should it bother you?"
"I'm not a knobroach..." And then he started to cry.
Now it's never nice seeing the leader of an invading army hell-bent on the annihilation of the human race, sobbing like a little girl, but I did my best to reassure him. Even took him out for sticky buns and lashings of ginger beer, but in the end it was impossible. He was a broken roach and the invasion was cancelled due to low self-esteem in the assembled hordes of bloodthirsty insects. They had a car boot sale the next weekend and I managed to pick up their mind control device for a very reasonable price. Which is how come I to be in possession of something capable of twisting people to my dark and dubious purpose.

Now while I'm sure that the other candidates have excellent credentials and haven't been arrested for anything involving sheep lately, none of them have saved mankind from certain death. With the exception of Mr Guthrie, who did once defeat a whole army of fanatical hamsters by infiltrating their ranks and then introducing them to heavy metal, kinky sex, and soft drugs. Allegedly.

* But probably not, as I just made it up this minute.

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