Tomorrow the Kenyan, he is going into a mosque. He is coming out of the closet. Across the nation, the heads of white people, they are preparing to explode: they just know the Kenyan is going to go in there, kneel down on a prayer rug, and bow towards Mecca.

Actually, he has something more and different in mind. Having recently visited a synagogue, the Kenyan, he will first don the yarmulke he obtained there, before kneeling on the rug. Then, there, on his knees, he will recite, three times: "There is no Goddess but Ana, and Robert Graves is Her prophet."

Yesterday the white people came in from out of the corn to begin making the president, the new one, the one to replace the Kenyan.

Among the Republican versions of the white people, the creepy, sinister vampire Zed Crud finished in first place. This was to be expected. Because more than 60% of these Republican corn voters identify as evangelicals. And thus they cleave towards that candidate who is most convincing in asserting that s/he fervently believes that Adam and Eve rode dinosaurs to church. And so, eight years ago the Republican corn people selected Huckleberry as their favorite; then, four years ago, it was Frothy. Now, Zed.

In the final days, Crud had taken to so dragging the cross around, that he would burst into some joint like Darrell's Place—"Home of Iowa's #1 Breaded Pork Tenderloin," owned by Darrell and Marilyn Munch—and there plead with the people "to awaken the body of Christ that we may pull back from the abyss."

It was that sort of thing that secured the Crud victory. That, and the Crud people's idea—inspired by the candidate's Christ-body-awakening shtick—to go out to the graveyards and there disinter and briefly electrify deceased evangelicals, staggering the corpses into the corn buildings to there signify their support for Zed. It was these stiffs, all independent observers agreed, who put Zed over the top.

Crud gave the back of his hand to the fulsome complaints from other candidates, noting that it has always famously been said that "anyone" can vote in the corn caucuses, and never has it been specifically stated that such anyones had to actually be alive. Crud also discoursed at great length upon the long and proud tradition among the Americans of determining elections with the votes of people from graveyards. "That is the America I intend to bring back," he vowed.

Finishing second, among the Republican corn beings, was The Hairball. Asked how it felt to be "a loser," The Hairball shrugged, "I could give a shit," adding, "not bad for the least serious presidential candidacy since Howdy Doody's, huh?"

The Hairball claimed the corn vote was "meaningless," because Crud "cannot be elected president, since he is Canadian, and also he is dead." He said, "I have lawyers—the best—who say a dead man can't be president in this country. Everyone knows Zed is a vampire, a dead man. It's true the Constitution doesn't explictly say a person has to be alive to be president, but, c'mon, who wants sitting in there a guy who's dead and who's Canadian and who is always drinking blood coming out of wherever? You know, maybe I'll sue. Should I sue? I think I'll sue."

The Hairball swore he bore "no hard feelings" towards the corn people for making him The Loser, and said he was "just kidding" when, back in October, he promised that, if he did not prevail in their realm, he would "never speak to you people again." In fact, so great, now, is his love, for the corn-land and its peoples, coughed The Hairball, that "I think I might come here and buy a farm."

Later, Hairball aides confirmed the candidate actually intends to purchase the entire state.

"You're damn right he's going to buy the whole state," growled Hairball aide Horst Wessel, "and what he'll do with it will make Lidice look like a picnic."

Another aide, speaking on deep background, said "when Herr Hairball is the president, and he gets done with this place, there will not be a single living soul left in this cursed cornhole." The aide explained that the depopulated corn-area would then become a vast, walled-off containment center for "Mexicans, Muslims, reporters, bimbos, and all the other people we'll need to deport."

In third place came Mondo Boobio, but he shot up so much speed before he went on stage that no one could understand a word that he said. It was believed to involve god and jesus and bombing and strafing and slitting.

Finishing fourth was Uncle Ben Carson, and the nation's TV cameras captured a sad scene, when, gazing out upon a sea of corn people, casting their caucus votes in one of the buildings, Uncle Ben said, "Where are the booths? They are voting in the open. How can they do that? There should be booths."

"No, Ben," said an aide gently. "This is a caucus. Remember? We explained it to you."

"No," Ben replied. "A Kaukus, it is a 'stan'. One of the foreign-policy men, he told me. There is Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Kaukustan. They told me for the debates. See?" And he slowly extended a palm. "I wrote it on my hand."

"There should be booths," Uncle Ben repeated, gazing again at the caucus corn-goers. "It is in the Constitution."

"We never had a chance in this state," an Uncle Ben aide later confided to a reporter. "Nobody here is going to vote right out in the open for a black man, not even Uncle Ben, the whitest black man since Michael Jackson. We'll do better where the white people can hide their votes."

The aide then shared with the reporter Uncle Ben internal poll data, which revealed, among other things, that, when confronted with photographs of bowling balls, 76% of Republican corn-caucus voters identified them as "nigger eggs."

Aqua Buddha, finishing fifth, managed to grab a single delegate, and thereby escape the traditional Running Of The Bullshitters, wherein those who pester the people of the corn, for votes to become the president, yet fail to earn any delegates, are thrust into tiger cages, and then run through the rows of corn, while the corn people laugh and jeer and throw stones at them.

Early Tuesday morning, the really bad losers—Heb, Frothy, Captain Lapband, Death Of A Salesman, Star Trek Head, Happy Gilmore—were all treated in this manner. (Huckleberry was spared this final humiliation, because earlier, before even were in all the Republican corn ballots, he suspended his campaign.)

After he'd been run through the rows, Heb collapsed on the ground, and there loudly blamed his fate on his brother. "You was my brother, George, you shoulda looked out for me a little bit," Heb was heard to say. "You shoulda taken care of me just a little bit, so I wouldn't have to take these dives for the short-end money. You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am. Let's face it. It was you, George."

An even worse fate awaited Happy Gilmore. Because his vote total (12) came in less than that accrued by the anonymous, undifferentiated "Other" (119), Gilmore was, pursuant to corn caucus rules, placed inside a giant wicker man, which was then set on fire.

The Democratic versions of the white people, meanwhile, and in honor of enhydra lutis' OT yesterday, which invoked Werner Heisenberg, decided to have an uncertainty-principle/observer-effect election, in which there is no real winner.

As of this writing, The Mad Bomber has 699 "state delegate equivalents" (the Democratic corn people do not actually count individual votes), while the Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man has 695, and The Invisible Man has 8 (nice little reaffirmation there that every vote, no matter how small, counts: if The Invisible Man ballots shifted to the Deli Man, the latter would surmount the Bomber. Meanwhile, The Invisible Man, like Huckleberry, also escaped the Running Of The Bullshitters, because he too suspended his campaign, before all the corn-tallies were in.) With, currently, a not-quite-certain number of SDEs outstanding, because some caucus chairs apparently went home to their corn-beds without turning in their tally sheets. There is also deafening screaming, sounding throughout the night, and particularly howling forth from the twit machines, about delegates chosen by coin tosses and corn tosses, delegates chosen fradulently, delegates mis-chosen, delegates chosen by slavering lizard-people barging into the buildings, delegates chosen what-have-you. Which is the sort of thing to be expected, in a Heisenberg uncertainty-principle/observer-effect election. And these results, whatever they are, can, and will, probably, maybe, change. As they did four years ago, when it took weeks to determine that Frothy had in "truth" prevailed among the Republican corn-people over Captain Underpants. Who election night had been considered the "winner."

What is perfectly clear, however, is that The Mad Bomber is one of the biggest Losers in the history of humans. This is a woman who has been unceasingly involved in politics seemingly since the Magna Carta (which she opposed; it "goes too far," she said), and yet she could not muster more votes than a man who is not visible combined with a wild-haired Hebrew who nine months ago was slinging Lonely Socialist Outpost deli sandwiches.

In her position, a Normal person would get out of the race, like LBJ did. (It is true that LBJ is rarely considered anywhere near "normal," but, compared to the Bomber, in such this situation, he is a veritable paragon of style and dignity and grace.) But no. As has been observed here many times, The Mad Bomber is clinically insane, and she is not going to leave the field until she has some sort of public Lucy Jordan moment.

Which creeps closer every minute.

Late Monday night, after in recent days shamelessly absorbing into her golem everything the Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man says, does, or even shits, The Mad Bomber flapped on stage shrieking "Look! I can make corned beef deli sandwiches too!"

But then all assembled gasped in horror, as they watched her proceed to slather mayonnaise on white bread. Because everyone knows that anyone who in a deli employs mayonnaise and white bread, is a person who must be put in a sack filled with big rocks, that is then dropped from a bridge, into a deep, fast-flowing river.

And so, and in keeping with the night's undead theme, Milton Berle was disinterred, and allowed to do the honors. As he stood upon the bridge, holding the Bomber-stuffed sack out over the water, rushing by far below, he intoned the ritual words: "Anytime somebody orders a corned beef sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise, somewhere in the world, a Jew dies." And then, he let go.

"Look!" someone shouted a moment later. "She floats!"