Dear John

Back in the summer of 2000, when we first met, you and I were heading in opposite directions on the electoral spectrum.

You had just lost a brutal primary to our current President, you'd been disgraced by your party and labled - not as a maverick - but as a defector.

I had recently been elected vice-president of the Pre-law Club at my liberal arts undergraduate college, gaining the respect and admiration of my peers (of course by respect and admiration I actually mean ambivelence and anonymity, but stick with me here).

At 64, kinda surly and curmudgeonly, you were way beyond over-the-hill. Chances were, you'd fade into insignificance as a senior Senator and slowly but surely be forgotten by the political landscape.

At 21, bright-eyed and full of fervor, I had my whole life ahead of me. While you toiled in obscurity in the United States Congress, promoting the surge and writing legislation, I was charged with the humbling and awe-inspiring responsibility of organizing the quarterly Pre-law Club meetings at the local Pizza King.

When we shared our moment, all those years ago, I noticed the hangdog sadness in your rheumy eyes as you had just let victory slip through your fingers. I tried not to gloat. After all, I had run unopposed but still, I saw no point in rubbing it in. Your handshake was firm, but hinted at sheepishness. You were so brave masking your bruised pride, but I could tell you were intimidated by me when you refused to sign my copy of your book. Don't hate the playa, John. Hate the game.

So while you continued your downward spiral into inevitable senility and irrevelance, I became president of my law school class (unopposed, again). It must have been tough to watch as I pulled off one of the most kick-ass 3L parties ever while you were fooling around confirming judicial appointees and promoting immigration reform. Again, I could almost feel your jealousy from D.C..

Now here you find yourself once again, in the public eye - old, tired, down in the polls, kind of a wet blanket, watching the country you served turning its back on you and being suckered into voting for some condescending Democrat full of hot air.

But Johnny Mac, don't be discouraged. Listen, just because I feel bad for you , I'm gonna throw you a bone. Ol' Duke's here to help you out. Nevermind that I disagree with your dispicable campaign, 80% of your policies and your choice of that Eskimo gal as a running mate. Since we go way back, I've got an offer for you.

Now I won't vote for you (because voting is dumb), but I'll do you one better: The Tortfeezor is endorsing you for President.

I don't know what it means to 'endorse' someone for President. If it involves anything actually proactive, then I reserve the right to renege. But call it love for the underdog, or pity, or whatever, but I kinda like your style. I can relate to ill-tempered, churlish grumps. I'm kinda cantankerous myself.

So enjoy the endorsement. You can thank me later.

Your old pal,

Duke