This mornin’ my granddaughter Auntbee asked me “Papa Biggie are you gonna be President?” and sadly, I told her no. Then she spit up on my Guccis. Bitch.

My Pappy used to tell me “son, it’s not if you win or lose, cause you’re a loser; it’s how gracefully you let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

I promise to bow out gracefully, not pullin’ a Heath Ledger cause I didn’t get no nomination for I’m Not There. (I woulda killed in Brokeback Mountain, ain’t nobody can say “I can’t quit you” like Big Freddie.)

I don’t talk ’bout it much but once when I was in the fourth grade for the second time I ran for cow monitor. Now you Northerners may not know what a cow monitor is. It’s like a hall monitor ‘cept our classes were in barns and someone had to monitor the cows to keep ‘em from interuptin, the learnin’.

My opponents were this kid who came from the north part of the barn and all he could talk ’bout was how one once collapsed on him; some wavy haired rich kid (he owned his own duck); a fat kid who kept sayin’ he could get the Baby Jesus to keep us safe from the herd; and my friend crazy Johnny who everybody felt bad for ’cause he fell into a well and nobody noticed for four years.

Now I knew I couldn’t count on the north part of the barn where all the uppity smart kids got learnin’, and no one knew what all those burnouts on the west part would do, but I knew the kids from the south part would support me.

Well it was another winless week for Big Freddie in his NFL picks. Once again pickin’ all southern teams ‘cept one cost me. I knew I shoulda gone with San Diego over Indianapolis but I picked the Colts for two reasons: (1) Peyton Manning is a good old red necked southern boy and (2) as you all know Indianapolis is in Ohio and that’s a battleground state.

Like a simple hick with no primary wins headin’ into the South Carolina without a hope of winnin’ I continue onward with my picks unbowed at my lack of success.

San Diego at New England:

I recently found out from this video that San Diego means a “Whale’s Vaginia.”

Back when I was a boy, I had a big button collection, most of ‘em were of losers: Wilkee, Dewey, Hitler, Uncle Earl’s bid for a ’shine powered engine. Even Daddy had a button, proudly wearing a “My Big Headed Retarded Kid Can Kick Your Ciphering Kid’s Ass.”

Since none of us had cars we used to put buttons on the asses of horses saying stuff like “Fart if you loves swine,” or “Ask me about my sow.”

Now there is news that my buttons are outselling everyone else’s, I have to thank my Massachusetts, Vermont and San Fransisco Fred’s Heads groups who are selling the most buttons. The best selling buttons are:

“Morons,” I said spitting some tabbacy on the floor. “I’ve got morons working for me.”

I’m in South Carolina meeting with my staff, the same staff that told me I couldn’t win no election by sittin’ on the back porch in Lawrenceburg drinking ’shine and just hintin’ that I’se gonna run for election — like that Jew mayor from New York’s doin’ right now (except instead of drinking ’shine, he’s banging all the broads Giuliani 911 left stuffed in closets and drawers). “No, no, no,” my staff says “You got to announce your running, and go freeze your fat Southern ass off in Iowa and New Hampshire. That’s the only way to win.”

People, it has become obvious to me that you don’t want a hot piece of ass in the White House.

You could of had me riding Red-hot Jeri in the Lincoln bedroom whooping and waving my cowboy hat like Slim Pickens at the end of Dr. Strangelove.

Or you could have had Munchkin Kucinich taking his lovely lady for a rocket ride in the east wing. (That ain’t no euphemism people, that boy thinks he’s been in a flying saucer.)

According to the lastest CNN poll Big Freddie has one percent of the New Hampshire vote. One percent! That’s how many brain cells Britney Spears has left; that’s how many people enjoyed The Celebrity Apprentice; that’s how many people believe Roger Clemens didn’t take it up the ass. I currently trail Ron Paul by nine points, that freaky roller skate under the car kid by four points, and cheese by two points.

Congratulations to my fellow Baby Jesus fearing Christian Mike Huckawho on his victory in Iowa. Now if he could have eight months in each state to stand in a cornfield with his shirt off convincing rubes that when you connect the moles on his back you get a vision of the Virgin Mary he might be on to something. (Remember if you only count Christian conservatives with a chance in hell of getting the nomination I came in first.)

As for those rumors that Big Freddie will be dropping out as I told KCCI TV in Des Moines:

That is absolutely made up out of whole cloth

According to Zogby I am experiencing a late breaking surge in Iowa. Usually, when facing a late breaking surge, I have to awaken Red-hot Jeri and tell her I’m finally ready to go. She rolls away leaving me to relieve the surge with a video of “Liza with a Z.”

However late my surge may be I am counting the minutes until Iowa is nothin’ but a dirty spot in my rear view mirror. Here are the things I will miss the most about the Houses of Hicks:

Cows: Cow milk, cow crap, cow insemination, I’ve done it all. Never thought I’d long for the day when the only brown cow in my life was S. Epatha Merkerson.