In my winter visit to New Hampshire, I am proud to announce, I withstood the Arctic breezes more confidently than did my many competitors for the position of POTUS. In fact, I believe I can say that I stood out from them all with my striking display of courage and aplomb.
For this I am grateful to my friend and technical advisor Myles na Gopaleen, Jr., who, through his Myles Junior Think Tank Cremation Service (MJTTCM), is responsible for having fitted my ashes with a top-of-the-line robotic apparatus (TOTLRAx1a) that is designed to make its occupant feel comfortable whatever the climatic circumstance.
The MJTTCM model TOTLRAx1a is customized to fit the whims and wishes of the aspiring candidate, provided that he or she or it is either a card-carrying member of the Dead Rights Party (DRiP) or a bona fide fellow-traveler.
It was, I believe, the apparent calm of my thus-ensconced demeanor that inspired my growing band of media types to probe my position on the issue of the century, that of global warming, a.k.a. climate change.
With the advice of my campaign manager, Arthur Unknown, I approached this issue from my privileged perspective as a dead man walking and talking.
“In the middle-distant future,” I announced through my megaphone, “this will not be a problem.”
I paused, to good effect and to let the writing portion of the media scribble down my immortal words.
“The reason, if I may say so, is simple.”
When the aforementioned band were done nodding their thoughtful heads, I continued:
“When we have all become dead, cremated, and fitted with even the most modest model of the MJTTCM’s robotic apparatus, a.k.a. RA, we as Americans will, as my own sturdy, courageous, and aplomb demeanor amply demonstrates, reveals, bespeaks, indicates, signifies, displays, exhibits, or otherwise shows, will face this impending set of horrific events with the equanimity for which our forefathers, foremothers, foreuncles, foreaunts, and forecousins became famous the world over. Next question. John, I see your hand through the growing blizzard.”
John Agon, one of my sturdiest media antagonists, asked a question that was lost in the frigid, swift-moving air.
“I agree completely,” said I, “with this proviso,” which I then spelled out in detail through my beaver hide mittens.
When I had finished, I looked around and saw, through my acrylic ocular implants, that my audience had taken my leave in favor of the cozy pot-bellied stoves for which New Hampshire villages are justly celebrated.
Next morning, the local newspaper led with the headline: “AB ENNIS PREDICTS: IN THE LONG RUN, WE’LL ALL BE DEAD.”