I'm ready to concede. Concede that there's no possible way to kill a Clinton. Whether it's a sex scandal, correct mathematics or a garlic-coated, silver-tipped stake through the heart. Last night I said:

"It’s been a long campaign, and I will be making no decisions tonight."

Of course that statement did not include the decision to make no decisions. But if we dwell on technicalities like that, no one would have gotten through 20 minutes of Donnie Darko.

I really wish I had specified that the no decisions was just about dropping out of the race.

• When we played Tina Turner's "Simply the Best" I wasn't able to decide if I should go with my conservative clap in place move or the more provocative bump and grind shimmy. The result was an awkward middle ground - clap and grind.
• We went out for a bite, Howard Wolfson suggested this place called Taco Mayhem and I didn't say anything even though I had Mexican the night before.
• Bill took advantage. It was like he found a genie. Had any of you guys ever heard of the barnyard blitz? Yeah me neither. I think he made it up.

There are some crazy rumors flying around that Barack and I have had "formal talks" about a joint ticket. This is simply untrue. If anything our talks should be characterized as "smug" with an air so tension-heavy, it's like a Mexican stand-off between God and Satan, but instead of guns they are holding detonation devices to trigger nuclear bombs. Also, that son of a bitch never wears a tie, so I think the most you can call anything he does is business casual.

After an awkward two-minute conversation about the weather (I think he even started talking about jet streams), I finally made my demands.  Here they are:

• After four years, we do a little ticket switcheroo and I run for your re-election.
• We split up the work load. You take agriculture, transportation and black issues. And I'll take health care, education, social security reform, foreign policy, domestic policy, international waters policy, and any other policies that should arise.
• We continue to debate after you're in office. This will create a healthy amount of openness between us and the American people. It will also give me a public forum to tell you how you're screwing things up.

After consulting some outside sources (Geraldine Ferraro), it appears I got more screwed by sexism than Barack did by racism. Probably because I lost. But just for kicks, I thought I'd recount my top 10 most sexist moments on the trail:

10. The Obama Bro’s before Ho’s t-shirts. It’s not that I think this age-old mantra is misogynistic; it’s more that I question its accuracy. You put any ho between two bros and that chicka will have those dudes clawing at each other’s eyeballs if she so much as smiles or makes eye contact with one of them. It’s called pussy power. It’s very real and very powerful.

9. Speaking of shirts, the heckler who yelled “Iron my shirt” at my stump speech. The shirt was indeed very wrinkly. After I pressed them out for him, that bastard put the shirt back on carelessly and created more creases!

8. My financial troubles. People are saying that I’m in the red 21 million because I’m a woman who can’t manage a checkbook! Please. I’m in this much debt because of my stubborn refusal to quit. This stems from my need for approval which is rooted in latent daddy issues.

7. Barack playing "99 Problems" at a primary victory party. OK, I'm actually not that pissed about this one because Jay-Z is a personal favorite and I thought it was kind of funny. I'll give him credit for not playing "Soldier Boy" -- which recounts a debase sexual act involving a cape and garden tools as far as I can tell. 

6. The media referring to me as Hillary and every other candidate by his surname. This chauvinistic exercise trivializes my message and my campaign, but I think I have a compromise solution. We’ll all just go by our middle names. So from here on out I’ll respond to Diane. And Barack – what’s his middle name again? Oh that’s right -- Hussein.

Did you hear the big proclamation I made today in Kentucky? I declared:

"This is nowhere near over."

Of course I wasn't talking directly about the campaign, but rather my far-fetched mathematical justifications for staying in the race. First I included the disqualified states of Michigan an Florida in my delegate count. Then I argued that I had the highest popular vote total in the history of primaries. And after that, I reminded everyone that Barack is black.

Then today I brought back a retro term: electoral votes. Remember those? They're sort of like delegates, but they have this funny little tendency to never elect a city-born, smooth-talking elitist.

I made a calculation that I'm leading the hypothetical future electoral vote count if you discount McCain and also if you discount states such as Alaska, Nebraska, Utah, Idaho and Kansas that voted for Barack but haven't gone Democratic in the modern political era.

You may be asking yourself what kind of wacky mathematicians do I have working for my campaign. If you guessed Stephen Hawking, you're right. Well Hawking in conjunction with a team of Kindergärtners. The Kindergärtners come up with the theories and Stephen fits them into the proper mathematical framework. Here are some other proofs they are working on:

-- Theory of exponentials: Being elected president is like becoming Daddy of the whole country!

I'm writing this post because I just want to say to the hard-working white people of West Virginia that way too much has been made of my years at Wellesley College and Yale Law School. You've never heard of them? Oh, right. They're not in the Big East conference and not BCS eligible.

I know that the fact I went to "elite" schools can rub folks like you--only 17% of whom are college graduates--the wrong way. It can be a real burr under your saddle. It can make you feel useless as tits on a boar. So let me tell you in the pure Appalachia dialect of my Scotch-Irish forebears -- them schools never larned me nothin' I couldn't figger out myself behind a pair of mules bustin' sod.

So whenever some other Democratic presidential candidate who's won a handful of states that don't have nearly as many sewage treatment plants named after Senator Robert C. Byrd (pause for on-line applause) as West Virginia does starts talkin' down to you folks about bein' bitter and clingin' to your guns, you just repeat the message I saw on a man's sleeveless T-shirt in Wheeling yesterday:

You guys honestly don't think I have a good exit plan? What's the first rule in making a kick ass action film? Always bet on black. (That's why I doubled down my personal investment to my campaign with an 11 million dollar bet for Barack in political futures gambling.) But the second rule in making a kick ass action flick is always end the story with a climactic chase scene. So here's what I'm thinking:

INT. NONDESCRIPT AND SMOKY BACK ROOM

Barack sits at a round table surrounded by guards who are brandishing automatic weapons. At the other end of the table is me, flanked by my entourage. My number one, Chelsea, stands directly behind my chair. She is wearing an eye patch and has a reputation for only arming herself with hunting knifes -- which has earned her the nickname Daughter Dagger. Barack slides some papers across the table.

Barack:

"Just sign here and we have a deal. You'll be Vice President on condition that I never see your ugly face during my term."

I pick up my steel-tip pen and start to sign it. Then stop.

Me:

"Well you know what they say about beauty."

Barack:

"What's that?"

All of a sudden, with the skill of a ninja, I back-flip onto the table then perform a flying leap and stab the pen into Barack's eyeball.

Me:

"It's in the eye of the beholder."

As Barack's men go for their guns, Daughter Dagger throws knifes slicing the arteries at their wrists before they can fire a shot. A chase up the stairwell ensues. We bust out a door and on to the top of a 50-story skyscraper. With an ak-47 pointed at us, Barack has Chelsea and I cornered. We get to the ledge and peer down to the miniature cars and ant-like people below.

Hey everybody! How was your evening last night? Probably felt good to kick back after Cinco de Mayo, right? (We celebrated Monday night at Chiles in Ft. Wayne with the endless chips and salsa and four rounds of El Nino margaritas. Chelsea got pretty hammered and started railing on her ex-boyfriend. It was funny at first, but then it got kind of sad because she was a little too bitter.)

But last night? Nothing too interesting to report. Definitely nothing I need to blog about. I almost skipped posting today, but then I remembered something of critical importance: West Virginia!  Like did you know West Virginia is the wisest state? The median age is 40 -- the oldest in the country. Also the first federal prison for women was opened in West Virginia and the actor Don Knotts was born a native Mountaineer.

I'm sorry, I can't do this. All this spin is making me dizzy. Don fucking Knotts? West Virginia is one of those terrible states with a capital you can never remember.

Everyone is talking about my nads.

This past weekend, Indiana's ass-kissing senator and veep wannabe Evan Bayh was about to relay something a steel worker told him -- that I had "more testicular fortitude" than "Gucci wearing, latte-drinking opponents" when I silenced Bayh mid-sentence.

Why did I not want him to tell the crowd about my balls? Because it degrades women to align tenacity with the male genitalia. And also, the number one rule in hermaphrodite-outing is that you let the hermaphrodite out him/her-self.

But then James Carville finished the job when comparing me to Obama:

"If she gave him one of her cojones, they'd both have two."

Fine, I admit it. I have three balls. And I realize you probably have a lot of questions. Are all three balls in one scrotum or do I have a spare ball inside a spare scrotum like that extra button in the little plastic baggy that come when you buy a new shirt?  Is the third ball a mutation and hence smaller then my regular balls and ineffective at producing sperm?

Furthermore, are my regular balls as big as a man's or are the circumferentorally smaller at a ratio proportionate to the male/female body size differential?  And lastly, does Jamie Lee Curtis know about this, and do you guys have weekly tea to discuss your freak junk?

An article in the Times took a survey of some of the uncommitted superdelegates (aka Hill-Savers), and it concluded the picture for me isn't too bright. The prevailing philosophy among these superdelegates is to follow the mandate of the voters (who have mostly been blacks from red states, but whatevs). One of these unpledged superdelegates, who apparently moonlights as a NASA scientist, said:

"It’s about the numbers, and the numbers are the numbers. It’s not about hand-wringing. And Senator Obama has the lead."

Let me ask you guys something, would you really be that pissed if the superdelegates went over your heads and swung the election in my favor? Seriously would you be? Cause I'll drop out if the answer is yes. But I suspect -- and tell me if I'm wrong -- you wouldn't care too much. You might mumble something inaudibly about politics and the gov'ment, but then you'd forget about it the next day. You'd go back to your Grand Theft Autos and your slinkys.