1968: I was born in Fresno, Calif. Times were hard. My father was a worm farmer. Although a popular food source in Europe, worms never caught on with the American public. Worms were and remain a niche product. Thus my father's clientele was relegated to weekend anglers and recent immigrants who missed the taste of home. Mother made lace doilies that she'd sell to wealthy families as high-end toilet paper. What I learned from my parents was self-reliance, appreciation of my local and national laws, and to never pin your hopes and dreams on worms or doilies. Thank you, Mom and Dad!

1988: Because of the long commute, I chose not to attended Harvard, Yale or Princeton. Instead I attended Fresno Community College and majored in restaurant hosting. Six short months later, I was working at the finest restaurant in Fresno, smiling, handing out menus and confidently walking customers to their table. I had finally found my place in the world. Or so I thought.

1999: While hosting, I became friendly with legendary KCOD weatherperson Bill "Foggy" Frawley. Bill was a thick slab of Irishman who was never shy about stealing your woman, drinking you under the table or starting a fist fight if you disagreed with that day's weather forecast. Every night after work, he'd come into the restaurant to drink. Often, he'd let me wear his gold blazer with the KCOD patch, giving me my first taste of belonging to something bigger than myself. Eventually Bill was shot dead by the jealous husband of a married woman he was carrying on with. Some claim the husband shot him because of years of inaccurate weather forecasts, not the affair. Maybe. All I know is the next day I got a call from KCOD's general manager, who remembered that Bill's jacket fit me. Overnight, I became the new KCOD weatherman.

2002: Soon I worked my way up from early morning weatherman to mid-afternoon weatherman. Eventually, I retired Bill's gold jacket and bought my own. I gave Bill's jacket to a homeless man named Dirty Carl, whom I'd often see roaming the streets of Fresno. Now when I see Dirty Carl wearing Bill's jacket while fighting with police or drinking a liter of vodka in the park, it puts a smile on my face. Somewhere I hope Bill is smiling too, if he's not too busy shoveling piles of coal into satan's giant furnace for all eternity. Bill was Catholic and had few illusions about where he'd end up.

2006:- Having never voted once, you can imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from a famous billionaire regarding the U.S. presidency.
"Sean Masterson how would you like to be president of the United States?," a genial voice asked me via speakerphone. To be honest, at first I thought it was some clever Direct TV phone solicitation to get me to switch over from cable. But the call was for real and I was intrigued. The following day, I was blindfolded and flown to a small island off the coast of Seattle. After enduring a battery of psychological tests, a microchip implant in my skull and some not-quite-right tofu lasagna, I was finally brought before the man who summoned me. From the shadows of his office lair, he emerged as his motorized office chair moved him quickly to my side. He introduced himself and motioned for me to sit, as the walls of his office lit up with an impressive PowerPoint presentation.

"Democrats and Republicans never get anything done," my wealthy patron began. "I have a better idea." He revealed a series of mock campaign posters and pie charts showing how the Republicrat Party would work. "Middle-of-the-road Republicans and Democrats make up the majority of Americans, yet each group has allowed extreme ideologues to grab control of their respective parties," he explained, as if he was speaking to a child, which I appreciated.

"What if we gave the people direct control over their candidate? What if our president was not a man full of partisan ideas but rather an empty vessel who exists only to do what the people tell him to do via the Web?" my host asked rhetorically.

"What you have is good teeth and a full head of hair. What I have is money and power. Together we can make it to the White House."

"But what about Senators McCain and Obama?" I asked.

"All that has to happen for us to win is for McCain or Obama to slip up. For example, say one candidate is found in a hotel room with an unmentionable kilo of something while the other candidate is found to be running a prostitution ring. The election would be over for them. Who would America turn to then? America need's a third choice for just this type of scenario."

It all made sense, I guess. To be honest, a lot of what he was saying went way over my head. After awhile I just heard "blah, blah, blah," but I couldn't stop staring at the giant mock campaign posters. Seeing my face and name in big letters made my eyes well up. This is why I was passed over for lead anchor at 6, 10 and 11 p.m. -- because God had a better gig for me, to anchor America for the next four, maybe eight years. After agreeing to be the first Republicrat candidate, I was promptly shot with a tranquilizing dart and quietly transported back to Fresno. I woke up face down on the helipad atop the KCOD building. Was it all a dream? The small rivulet of dried blood on my cheek from my microchip implant informed me it was all too real. I groggily walked downstairs and resigned from the world of journalism. Since that day, I have dedicated myself to taking back America from the special interests, so I can hand it back to the ordinary citizens of America, who work for other, just-as-entitled special interests.

2008: The Republicrat Party can only grow. When your friends attack you -- and they will -- for abandoning your Democrat or Republican Party affiliations, just smile and pretend you have your own microchip in your head as you tell them, "Sean Masterson serves all the people, not a small cadre of extremists with their own agendas and narrow interests." Let your friends know in your own words why the Republicrat Party is now your party -- the party for the people, by the people. God bless America.