The Legend of You Know Who; Or, What REALLY Happened in Nevada

You’ll probably never read this story in the mainstream media, but dozens of people swear it’s true. Kate Stone has been busy collecting eyewitness reports, and this is what she believes took place:

Caucus day in Las Vegas dawned sunny and bright; but there was no sunshine on the face of Roger Constantine. He stood on the roof of the Plaza Hotel and Casino, looking down on the busy street below, muttering a prayer as he dashed a tear from his eye.

“What do you think you’re doing? ” said a voice behind him. Roger looked around to see a man in jeans, baseball cap and flak jacket standing behind him, heavily tattooed bare arms crossed over his chest. “If it’s what I think you’re doing - well, you’re not doing it. I’m not going to let you.”

“Why not?” asked Roger despondently. “I have nothing left to live for. I’ve gambled it all away. I’ve lost my home, my job, my family. I’m $300,000 in debt. I wish I had never seen a slot machine; at least now I won’t see them any more. Goodbye.” He stepped toward the edge of the roof but suddenly froze in mid-stride.

“Now you are in my power,” said the stranger. “And you will do what I tell you to. You will climb down from this roof and go out into the street. See that red, white and blue GMC Sierra down there, with I’M AN AMERICAN HERO painted on the side? You are going to climb into the cab and wait for me. Don’t worry about the seven Rottweilers. They won’t hurt you - not unless you try to get out of the truck before I say so. You agree?”

“Yes,” said Roger vaguely. Then, stumbling like a sleepwalker, he dragged himself away from the edge of the roof and toward the open trapdoor.

A few minutes later, a tattooed stranger in baseball cap and flak jacket entered the casino. He went to one slot machine and emptied it. He went to another slot machine and emptied it. He emptied a whole row of slot machines, then headed for the blackjack tables. By this time he’d attracted an astonished and admiring crowd.

“Hey, I know who that is!” said a white-haired woman who happened to hail from Flagstaff, Arizona. “It’s CALIFORNIA BLAT!” Loud gasps of amazement; then cheers.

An hour later, California Blat (for that is indeed who it was) came back out to the truck. “Here you go,” he said, handing Roger a check. “I’ve paid off all your debts, and here’s $50,000 extra to help you start over. I will put a charm upon you to remove your urge to gamble; slots and casinos will never attract you again. Now go, and begin anew!

As Roger fell down on his knees in the street, weeping and kissing the stranger’s dusty hiking boots, the crowd cheered and cheered and cheered.

“It’s nothing,” said their hero. “It’s all in a day’s work for California Blat.”

But the people were already running en masse to the nearest Nevada Caucus precincts. And when all the ballots were counted, California Blat had 21,722 votes - almost as many as Mitt Romney.

But Blat said, “Please don’t count those votes. I’m grateful that you love me as much as I love you; but I am not a candidate. I don’t really want to be president.

I want to roam the desert
In my pickup truck
Helping all the people who
Are down upon their luck,

I’d rather be a hero,
(A mighty hero),
And not a big fat zero
Just like RALPH.”

Then he got into his truck and roared away. And no one ever reported the story in the media.

“He’s a idiot,” commented Moment-Man Eustace Whazzup. “I'd run after him if I could but I still cain't walk too good. He's gotta come back. He's gotta run for President. I mean, who else is there? That Kon-pervo character? I betcha anything CB’ll change his mind if’n we git enough people beggin’ him.”