How to drop out of a Presidential Race.

Over the next two weeks, America’s love affair with most of its 14 presidential candidates—and Jim Gilmore—will come to an end. It’s hard to see any of them go. It seems like only yesterday that Lincoln Chafee tried to thrust the metric system on unsuspecting Americans; Ben Carson, who liked to portray himself as a reformed homicidal maniac, was actually winning the Iowa caucuses; and Jeb was still an exclamation point, instead of an asterisk.

But after the votes are tallied in Iowa and New Hampshire, it’s pretty clear there will be at most three or four serious candidates still standing. As for the rest, they need to start thinking about their exit strategies.

This is not an idle consideration. Dropping out of the presidential race can be more important—and can have a more lasting impact—than entering it. Departing the right way can help a candidate built a lasting “brand” and set him or her up for speaking fees, TV contracts, a book deal and, who knows, maybe another run for the top prize one day.

Of course, some candidates go out with more grace and style than others. One of history’s best dropout lines came from Democrat Adlai Stevenson, who, after losing to Dwight Eisenhower, confessed, “It hurts too much to laugh, but I’m too old to cry.” Richard Nixon, after he lost his race for governor of California in 1962, chose a different tack, famously proclaiming he’d quit politics forever and snapping to reporters, in words that would haunt him the rest of his life, “You won’t have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore.” Ronald Reagan fought Gerald Ford all the way to the convention in 1976, and spent the next four years giving speeches and addresses that set up his frontrunner status in 1980. In 2008, when Hillary Clinton left the presidential campaign after a long, bitter struggle against Barack Obama she proclaimed herself a “glass ceiling” breaker—and made it pretty clear she’d be back to try to shatter the glass again.

So how will 2016’s favorite soon-to-be-also-rans finally quit? History offers at least seven possibilities:


The F-Y’all Farewell

You’ve been screwed. Somebody, perhaps a lot of somebodies, told you that you should run for president. No, that you must run. They promised you support, endorsements, money. They promised to have your back. And now they’re telling you to quit and probably flirting with other candidates, too. You’re mad as hell. You could’ve been doing a million other cooler things with your life than sit around and be called “low energy” or a loser by some bullying, new-money boor.

If you have to drop out of the race, why not take everyone down with you? This scenario has the candidate in full tirade—blaming the voters (“they were too angry and/or stupid to appreciate me”); his staff (“they gave me bad advice”); his superPAC (“they wasted all that money”); his rivals (“they played dirty tricks”); America (“this country isn’t ready for an able, reasonable guy like me”); his party (“stupid people not interested in substance”); his family (“too much baggage”); and the media (“they never covered me fairly”). This temper tantrum leaves nothing and no one unscorched. The only option left is to write a bitter book that no one reads—or, in the extreme case, switch parties.

Historical precedents: Jon Huntsman, Arlen Specter

Most likely this year: Barring a miracle comeback, Jeb! Bush.


The Weird Loner

You almost made it. For one fleeting moment it was all going your way. You were amazingly, perhaps improbably, atop the polls, and people were talking about possible running mates. Nate Silver was outlining your probability of victory in Iowa and New Hampshire. Then, well, you know what went wrong …

It’s everyone’s impulse when they suffer a painful defeat to want to go in bed, pull a blanket over their head and weep. But not everybody actually does it—especially not a politician, whose entire life surrounds his or her rather perverse need for public attention and acclaim. Thus, the “weird loner” syndrome is only available to those so deeply damaged and embarrassed by the contest they give up the spotlight they have been basking in for so long.

This particular departure scenario requires a former candidate to pull a total Luke Skywalker. You disappear for a long period of time, grow out a long salt-and-pepper beard, gain 30 or 40 pounds and walk around with a haunted, crazed look in your eyes—as if you’ve been alone in an attic holding conversations with your daughter’s doll collection. If you reemerge at all, it’s done quietly, reluctantly and not by your own choice. Usually a reporter tracks you down while you’re holding meditation sessions in Tibet.

Historical precedent: Al Gore

Most likely this year: Dr. Ben Carson. After all, he’s already got a start on the beard.


The Pretend-You’re-Still-Running

You didn’t really lose. You actually won. You spread your message to voters. You shaped the discussion. People gave your debate performances nice reviews, quoted your funny little lines or your pop culture references in the media. You still have a steady day job. No, this is great, actually. This is exactly where you should be. You’re more relevant and important than ever. They’ll see …

This one is the sad case of a candidate who, having been totally rejected by the voters, withdraws while barely hitting 1 percent in the polls—and yet somehow is convinced he and his endorsement are still of value, that people still want to hear his message, that he is just one speech away from being an unmatched political force. In other words, these are among the most delusional people on earth—even for politicians—close behind defenders of Bill Cosby or the Star Wars prequels.

Historical precedent: Bill Richardson

Most likely this year: This one is already underway. A few weeks ago Lindsey Graham quit the race with virtually no support, then about a minute later endorsed fellow single-digit-dweller Jeb Bush, and quickly returned to the campaign trail hitting on the same themes that led him to drop out in the first place. Last week, the Graham-Bush act attracted about 40 people at a stop in New Hampshire. Which makes one wonder how many would have shown up if Lindsey Graham weren’t the draw. My guess? 40.

The Incorrigible Flirt

They all want you. Your special magic. All the candidates have called to offer you thanks for a hard-fought campaign. Even Donald Trump tweeted something nice about you for the first time since you joined the race. They all want your endorsement. But why pick one of them? Why not milk this for all it’s worth? Why not let them beg you?

This candidate leaves the race with a modicum of support and at least a tad of a following, and then uses it to tease one campaign after another, dangling his endorsement in front of their noses. But he never quite does it. He’s just in it for the thrill of the spotlight and probably deep down thinks he’ll have another shot at the big prize.

Historical precedent: John Edwards 2004, before he got caught with a lovechild

Most likely this year: John Kasich (sans love child)


The Hope-No-One-Remembers-You-Ran

Well, that was a big mistake. You know that now. Whatever damn fool thought that the voters, or the media, would give you a second look, hell even a first look, is nowhere to be found now. You ran behind Rick Santorum. You ran behind Ben Carson. You ran behind a kid named Deez Nutz. How do you walk back in the country club with a straight face now? There’s only one way …

This scenario is mainly reserved for candidates who thought running made a lot of sense on paper, then entered the race to find that no one else on earth agreed. Once freed from the embarrassment and humiliation of having to go on the kiddie table debate and discuss Second Amendment rights with other doomed wannabes, this candidate just wants to disappear like Michael J. Fox almost did in that scene from Back to the Future. The only way to do that is to excise any mention of the presidential campaign from your bio, from media interviews, from family conversations. Just pretend it never happened. Go back to teaching classes or sitting on corporate boards. Hope life returns to the way it was before someone showed you a campaign logo. If somebody has the temerity to ask you, “Hey, you still running for president?” You shrug and reply, “Uh, no. I think you’ve confused me with somebody else.”

Historical precedent: Chris Dodd

Most likely this year: Without question George Pataki


The Angle-for-Vice-President

Oh, yes. Some of the others have quit the race. But not you. Not really. It’s not over for you. Look at you. You’re swimming in potential. Electability. Poise. Charm. Practical experience. And, hey, you’ve shown you don’t have any problem with doing the dirty work, right? Like when you savaged Trump in a web ad or railed against the reporter from CNN. Now you just have the play your cards right. Watch the polls. See what’s happening. Keep open lines to all the guys still in it. Maybe you can only be one heartbeat away …

This one is a tried-and-true maneuver—played by some of the best politicos in the business. In this one, the departed candidate maintains a visible presence on cable news and talk radio, starts attacking the opposition and keeps in close touch with the frontrunners to privately offer any help or advice. If a reporter friend or two happens to list their name as a likely VP candidate, well that’s fine too. NOTE: This strategy usually doesn’t work. Nobody like someone who tries to hard.

Historical precedents: Evan Bayh, Chris Dodd, Elizabeth Dole

Most likely this year: Carly Fiorina


The Mike Huckabee

Well, OK, so this one didn’t work out. But you’re a great guy. Warm, relatable. People like you. How many wonderful folks did you meet out on the trail? How many reporters did you regale with charming, down-home stories? How many times did you confide your struggles with weight gain or how you could sometimes be a pain in the you-know-what to your dear wife? Just imagine how many books you sold over the past year. You kept in touch with your friends at the cable networks. Maybe they’ve got a place for a viewer-friendly, easy-listening fella who’s been around the campaign trail a time or two.

This dropout scenario is a pure business play. Come to think of it, to a lot of people, the run itself was a pure business play. The candidate puts in a few appearances, participates in a few debates, does a little grandstanding to appease his audience, uh, I mean base—and ends up leaving with another book deal, a new TV contract and a place on the speaker’s circuit, where he can sprinkle in some new anecdotes from his latest run for president. This game leaves departing players with more consolation prizes than Family Feud.

Historical precedent: Mike Huckabee

Most likely this year: Mike Huckabee


The Donald Trump

Who needs these clowns? You’re all about winning, OK? The very, very stupid and extremely corrupt media is saying that some third-rate candidate bested Trump? Come on—give me a break. Never gonna happen. Never did happen. You entered this thing on a lark, and totally dominated every poll in every state from the beginning. You spent so little money on your own race that you almost felt guilty about it. You didn’t lose, got that? You just decided you didn’t want this thing. You don’t need to be president. It’s a pay cut, OK? You are really, really rich. I mean Michael Bloomberg should have your bank account. You can influence a hell of a lot more from the outside than from the inside, huddled with all these low-energy dweebs.

Not every dropout plan has been executed before. When and if Donald Trump ever quits the race, he’ll undoubtedly invent a totally unique withdrawal approach. It will probably involve expletives, threats and a couple of parting shots at Jeb Bush—you know just for laughs. He’ll list all the polls that had him winning. He’ll flirt with a third party run. One thing’s for sure, if it comes to pass: Donald Trump will not go quietly. That withdrawal will be one for