It’s always the same routine. I’ll walk into a small mom-and-pop restaurant for a photo-op. I’ll sit down with some real Americans to talk about the issues that affect them, and the waitress comes over to ask for our order. Usually I’m in the mood for a tuna salad sandwich, or maybe a BLT if I feel like I’ve earned it. But then in comes my campaign manager, why says I have to order some horrid regional sandwich to appeal to whatever demographic I’m courting this week. And gosh darnit, I’ve just about had enough of it.
When I began my campaign, it was just a mild nuisance. A loose meat sandwich to get in with middle class whites in Iowa? Sure. A barbeque brisket sandwich to appeal to NASCAR dads in the southeast? Absolutely. But it’s a slippery slope. One day, you’re enjoying an authentic Philly Cheesesteak in Pennsylvania with some small business owners who want the government out of their pocketbooks, but in the blink of an eye, you’re eating a Sloppy Joe croissant with some 9/11 first responders in New Jersey, wondering where it all went wrong.
Just last week, I was talking to some voters in Louisville. I was advised to order something called a “Hot Brown.” I didn’t know what was in it, or even why you would name a sandwich such a thing. The cameras surrounded me as it was placed in front of me. So I ate it. I could tell it was undercooked, but I ate it. I ate it because I love this country, and I can’t stand to see another four years of Big Government overstepping the bounds of our constitution.
As soon as we left the campaign stop, I locked myself in the bathroom in the back of my bus and I vomited all the way to Sarasota.
So I ask you, just how many delegates is one man’s dignity worth? How many sandwiches full of mystery meats, how many questionable condiments, how many sleepless nights kneeled over the toilet in a Hampton Inn bathroom must I endure? How many more Po’ Boys and Breaded Pork Tenderloins must I eat to prove I am worthy? It’s never enough.
It’s never enough.