Yes, I "strenuously disagreed" with my aid who said a "fresh terrorist attack" would help my candidacy. For starters since when do we describe terrorist attacks in terms of freshness? Is it a delicious sandwich with boar's head products? No, it's bombing and death and the TERROR!

But moreover, I'm not so sure it would help. It would be a nice thought and all, but in practice ... meh. Yes, a lot of people would be scared. And when people get scared, they turn into Republicans. But others would take a step back and realize the best solution is a transcendence of race and religion and blah blah blah hippie garbage.

What would help my candidacy is the ultimate terrorist attack: the apocalypse! With the lakes of fire, and the garden of Earthly delights (which would probably cause a family values backlash!). Do you know what one of the Horsemen would say to "Barack Obama represents a new kind of politics?" Trick question. He wouldn't say anything. He'd decapitate you with his sword.

Just when I think I’ve got a handle on the current glut of newfangledness in America, I see something in the paper that boggles my mind. I heard on the radio today that stores are starting to sell vinyl records! Jeez Louise! Vinyl records! That’ll be the day! What’s so wrong with the wax cylinders that we’ve been listening to for years? Is there a carnuba shortage or something?

Now, if I know anything about kids it’s that they can’t resist Grandpa when he’s got a pocket full of butterscotch candies, and they love the popular music records. I don’t pretend to speak for every Tom, Dick and Harry down the lane, but when I listen to “Yiddle on your Fiddle” or "When Ragtime Rosie Ragged The Rosary," I don’t want to miss any of the pops, squeaks or small, manageable oil fires that go with it.  Quadraphonic hi-fi crystal clear vinyl? Thanks, but no thanks.

As many of you know, I am the candidate who stands for the values and principles of the past. I served in a war in the past. I was an esteemed statesman in the past. The past is good. So stop talking about the stuff in the past that wasn't good.

There was an article published about my divorce of my first wife. If you've been reading my diary for a while (God knows my sweet mother has, bless her curious heart) you will understand why I took the opportunity to leave Carol, my deformed ex-wife. The divorce I initiated was completely mutual, even though it is clear she still has feelings for me forty years later. And the modern love of my life, sweet Mama McCain, agrees and is happy that I am fabulously wealthy now because I married Cindy.  

When I was a kid growing up on the naval base, I remember this kid called Boogers. His real name wasn't Boogers, but we all called him that because he would pick his nose and wipe it everywhere: on his clothes, in his hair, on the naval fleet . Seriously it was a scientific miracle how this kid could generate such an endless supply of boogers.

One day, and I'm not making this up, the kid showed up with feces smeared across his forehead. And when we asked him about it, he just ignored us, like his face wasn't covered in his own excrement.  But it was, my friends, it most certainly was.

Long story short, this kid was the epitome of uncool. If you were playing tether ball and Boogers came up and tried to join the game, everyone would assume you were infected by his terribleness. No one would talk to you for at least a week.

I think you know where I'm going with this. That kid, who got nose bleeds every day, is George Bush. And right now he is following me around the playground making me look bad.

Ellen -- Ick!

Whose idea was it for me to go on Ellen's stupid show? Isn't her typical guest a dying puppy or a vagina? It makes as much sense as Dennis Miller on Monday Night Football or when Newt Gingrich compared me to Abraham Lincoln. (fyi, I think of myself more as a Stephen Douglas type.)

But whatever, I went on the show to talk to the daytime TV demographic. And then out of nowhere she starts grilling me about gay marriage. And I had a hilarious Top Ten Ways You Can Be A Better Housewife list all planned that we didn't have time for. Is it common knowledge that Ellen is a lesbian? I had no clue! I thought she was an 8-year-old boy!

I told her that I respectfully disagreed with her on gay marriage. But then she compared my opinion to thinking blacks and women shouldn't have the right to vote. And I'm positive I've never said that -- at least not publicly. And I won't be held accountable for what Mother says. I've sent multiple memos to the press about that!

Friends, you know I have lots of foreign policy experience. Sure, I might mix up Sunni and Shia from time to time (they're both "S" words, which makes it tricky), but no one can doubt that I've spent plenty of time outside of the US.

My time overseas involved a jungle, a bamboo cage, and more than one game of Russian Roulette so I know this country has enemies. Enemies like that guy Abaniminijod (or whatever), at least two different kinds of Al Quedas, and this "European Union" thing I heard about this morning which sounds kind of ominous. That's what Obama doesn't understand. He's still living in his make-believe hippie world, where everyone is holding hands and singing kumbaya and the Middle East is full of unicorns prancing underneath rainbows.

Well, guess what? I've been to the real world, and things don't look like that. The real world is full of bearded men with missiles strapped under their shirts. In the real world, no one is going to pick you up if your campaign bus breaks down, your party loses elections in formerly secure districts, and "Wonderfalls" gets cancelled. The real world is a hideous, cynical place. It's kind of like Detroit -- only worse.

Obama doesn't understand this. He wants to legitimize these tyrannical governments, which no US administration has ever done. Also, some of these guys will steal the cufflinks right off your wrists, and eat all of the food you provided for the meeting.

I made some predictions about the year 2013 in a speech today -- predictions that some are calling bold and others are saying, "sounds like they were made using a Magic 8 Ball."

Will Osama bin Laden be dead: most likely. Will Afghanistan be rid of the Taliban: my sources say -- Damn! It got caught in the middle. Let me just shake it again. Ok--no. My sources say no.

Do I really believe any of this? Of course not. The Mayan calender ends on December 21st, 2012 at which point a massive global cataclysm will cleanse the Earth of most life. Any survivors will break into primitive tribal bands and nationalistic boundaries will become obsolete. The war in Iraq will no longer be relevant. But as president you can be sure that I will launch a heavy offensive around Dec. 16th 2012, so if some arbiter had to decide who came out on top, we'll finish with a flurry of jabs right as the bell rings.

I won't let the tribes occupying the Americas proceed into the new dark times with an inferiority complex about their ancestors.

Friends, campaigns aren’t all baby-kissing and photo-ops in front of the flag. Sometimes, when your opponent implies that you are too senile to be president, the kid gloves have to come off. And sometimes, you take the kid gloves off, put some brass knuckles on, and ram your fist down your opponent’s fucking throat.

I’m pissed off because this little twerp Obama, who was six fucking years old when I was getting my toenails ripped out by gook—er, the North Vietnamese—and can’t fucking bowl to save his life, not only said I was “losing my bearings,” he called my campaign’s response to it a “bizarre rant.”

No, you know what’s bizarre? This campaign. I remember when I was just breaking into politics, we didn’t have this 24-hour-news-cycle bullshit, where every little thing you do is put under a microscope. I mean, I once punched Lyndon Johnson in the face for calling me a pigfucker and no one heard about it, but now I can’t take a shit without twenty bloggers speculating about its consistency.

In the good old days, we’d have one debate, and maybe it’d be on television—not that it mattered much, since most people didn’t have television. They got their news from radios and newspapers, which we called “broadsheets” or “talking papers.” In today’s world, I have to go on some stupid fake news show and banter with some candy-ass liberal who probably did blow with his ugly comedian friends right before interviewing me. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s fake news.

Friends, I don’t like to use the word “bitch,” but as Mother says, sometimes you have to call a spade a spade, and I’m riding the Straight Talk Express, not the Namby-Pamby Bullshit Express. And if Arianna “Look at me, I’m a blogger!” Huffington calls me a liar, I’ll tell the truth: she’s a bitch.

Wait, that came out a little harsh. See, the problem is I sometimes do say one thing, and then a few months later, I say another thing which contradicts it. But those aren’t lies. It’s just hard for me to remember every small little detail, like whether I talked with John Kerry about running with him, or what state I’m in, or what I had for breakfast this morning. I’m thinking it was toast. A bagel? I might have had some sausage, too.

Where was I? Ah, yes, Huffington. I remember when I told her what beautiful eyes she had. We were sitting on the deck, looking out at the sun setting on the ocean...actually, that was my honeymoon, never mind. Or an affair. Yeah, it was probably an affair.