Ted Cruz knew opportunity when it punched him in the face, then elbowed him in the face, then hugged him—in the face. He knew when the odds weren’t in his favor, when to leave it all behind. He knew when to go home. So he did. He packed up his politics, his bags, and his mask. He gathered his family, got them packed too. Wrapped them up in cellophane, addressed and overnighted to the Ikea from which they were kidnapped. Then Ted Cruz flew home. His fleshy wings flapping in the Eastern breeze.
Transylvania was much as he left it. Dark. Moldy. His hillside cave was still littered with the exoskeletons of his favorite meal (tiny spiders). Old copies of Hustler pasted the walls. Ted smiled as he recognized his favorite spots—the corners. Suddenly the nightmare of his campaign faded away, replaced by the pleasures of the present: a quiet retirement from public life. A private adventure in terrifying country folk. A Vine account to explore his kinks. Yeah—Transylvania rocked.
But Ted soon grew bored. Sucking the blood from grazing sheep no longer quelled his appetite. Coffin-cuddling with the freshly dead had lost its charm. Howling into the night, calling the bees, shaving cats, tap-dancing—none of Ted’s former interests made his 73 nipples perk the way politics once did. He missed the barely crafted deceit. The finger wagging. The one night a year you can eat a lobbyist without consequence.
Ted, ever the dreamer, realized he shouldn’t have to give up the things he loved just because no one wanted him in America. After all, this was Transylvania! They didn’t have a choice.
So Ted ran for President, again. He brought together a team of advisers (mostly vermin). He hammered out policy (no gay squirrels, other squirrels okay). He harassed women for having vaginas, which, to his surprise, went terribly. It turned out witches don’t take well to restrictive rhetoric.
Ted’s campaign had promise. He had a home turf advantage, unlike in America where many thought him Canadian, or worse—lame. One several-headed gopher ran a massively successful social media campaign, which got buzz from the likes of Transylvania Twitter elites Denny’s (@DennysDiner) and @FakeTedCruz, a hilarious account that tweeted the same thing Ted’s did, but with the hashtag #fake. Ted later confessed he ran the account. But that was just like Ted—tricky.
Things were going really well for Ted. He was polling favorably as the only candidate in the race. But just as a seat in the oblong-office (Transylvania is governed from inside a large log) seemed imminent, something unexpected and totally unforeseen happened.
An ogre entered the race.
At first, Ted wasn’t worried. Most Transylvanians hated ogres. They smelled bad and had the unfortunate burden of a poorly made digestive system. In short, they shit out their mouths.
But there was something about this ogre that the people (and disfigured woodland creatures) liked. They were drawn to the shit pouring from his mouth. It was a spectacle to watch. It transfixed them. It was the kind of shit they secretly wished could come pouring from their mouths too, because, well, it just seemed right.
This confounded Ted. Where did this ogre come from? Why did everyone like him so much? How could anyone smell worse than him? Still, it felt familiar. Like déjà vu. But Ted couldn’t place it. He was too busy, too fixated on the actual feces gushing from this ogre’s face-hole, to recall past mistakes and act accordingly. Where the ogre went, his deluge cascaded, covering the countryside in a thick layer of stank. Transylvania, it seemed, was drowning in someone else's internal mess.
After several months of this literal shit show, Ted’s top advisor, a badger named Marvin, took him aside. He was worried. They were hemorrhaging blood-money. Ted’s reputation was being smothered in yesterday’s meal. The electorate found it increasingly hard to engage with Ted, especially since he always had the remains of tiny spiders inexplicably strewn across his lips. Marvin said there were no more options. It was time to call it quits.
Ted licked a leftover spider from the part of his face meant to be kissed but never had been and never would be. He thought over what Marvin the advising badger had said. He understood the facts, knew it was in his best interest to withdraw from the race, but couldn’t help but feel he would be partially responsible if the country truly became the toilet it more closely resembled with every passing day. In the end he decided to listen to Marvin. Then he ate Marvin.
His political aspirations thwarted again, Ted felt displaced. No one seemed to want him. No one even seemed to ask for him. Where would he go? What would he do? Ted did the only thing a deluded vamp with a hyper-inflated sense of self-worth could do. He packed his bags, stretched out his slimed wings, and flew West, looking for a new people to conquer. Which is how Ted Cruz made it to a little town called Hollywood and into this year's big hit, "Mother's Day." Please silence your cellphones and refrain from talking as the movie begins. Ted is here and he's hungry.
Enjoy the show.