At first, when Hillary told me that, because of my less than helpful behavior, I was being banished to small towns where I couldn't do any damage, I was outraged. But I could not have been more wrong. I love small town America.

These people are so hungry for a taste of fame that everything stops when I arrive. They meet me with a high school band and cheerleaders. Ohhh, cheerleaders. Their short skirts, their tight sweaters, their color coordinated bloomers visible as they're thrown so high. (Franklin and Jefferson were geniuses making the age of consent the same as the voting age.)

Then there's the food. Barbecued ribs, chicken dripping in grease, everything Hillary won't let me eat. And cheerleaders, cheerleaders with greasy fingers and sexy sauce stains accentuating their midriff-length bibs.

And the media? There is none. Everybody wants the bright lights, the big city, the actual candidates. I can give a speech that makes Reverend Wright sound like Father Flanagan and no one is listening because they're fighting over the ribs. If a racist makes inappropriate comments in the south while ribs are cooking does anyone hear?

And did I mention the cheerleaders?