How to Pick a President

I just had a discussion recently with a Fox-breathing republican friend of mine where I pointed out that while I did drink the O koolaid, I’ve been clean and sober for about a year now. There probably should be a 12 step group for this, but I think most of the 12 steppers probably drank the W koolaid.

Now that I’m sober, I realize I haven’t liked any of our presidents much since Reagan. So I started thinking about how we could pick a good one, since this whole voting thing isn’t working out so well.

Now I don’t want to ditch voting entirely, since that seems to lead to things like the Taliban and Kim Jung Il. I kinda like the Queen of England, but after all that shooting a couple centuries back, we really can’t ask her I guess. I thought about this for a long time then it hit me:

Bring back the draft.

No I don’t mean the wholesale draft, we already got enough soldiers wandering aimlessly in deserts around the world, we can’t afford any more of those. But the President is the Commander-in-chief and by default part of the military. So next time let’s draft him. Find the guy in America who least wants the job and put him in charge.

Imagine you’re sitting there, having a beer and playing your Wii one Saturday afternoon while you wait for the race to start. There’s a knock at the door. You open it and there’s a man in black, and I don’t mean the ghost of Earnhardt. No, I’m talking Agent Smith. Behind him is a limo and more police cars than you’d need to take down Pablo Escobar.

He holds up a letter, “Mr. Jones, I’m Special Agent Smith of the Secret Service and I’m here to inform you…”

You slam the door and run for the rear exit only to find Agent Smith’s twin at the back door. “… that as of Noon today…”

You slam the door and run for the side window, as you open it you realize that Mrs. Smith obviously had triplets, “…you are now the President of the United States of…” You run to the other side window upstairs and, damn, apparently Mrs. Smith could have had her own TV show, another few of her boys are down there with a net.

“… America. Mr. President we’d prefer it if you didn’t jump or make us taser you,” Agent Smith #4 says.

Realizing you’re surrounded you consider the possibility of hiding, but as you pull the attic stairs down, you notice yet another Agent Smith already in the attic. “Sir we are very good at our job, you’ll have to come with us.”

You give up, “Ok. Can I bring my beer?”

“We have beer in the limo, Sir.”

Ok, so maybe it’s not so bad, “Got any…”

“Jack Daniels, yes, Sir, and Cheetos. chips and shrimp dip and the chef has prepared your favorite chili cheese fries.”

Ok, maybe not so bad at all, “Got a…”

“TV in the limo? Yes Sir, and the race pregame is about to start Sir.”

“Ok, I’m in.”

Agent Smith #… well, whatever, talks to his watch, “Big Cheeseball is go for extraction.”

“Big Cheesball?”

“Your codename, Sir.”

“I like it.”

Fast forward a couple weeks to the White House. Friday afternoon, you’re sitting there drinking a beer and wondering dimly who the idiot at NASCAR was that thought running a race around midnight on Friday was a good idea and whether or not the President has the power to fix that or not. On the TV your press secretary is apologizing for you telling Wolf Blitzer to “buy a clue” the other day and threatening to send Agent Smith to “adjust him with a clue by four.”

Your secretary knocks and you hear the lock on the Oval Office click, both sounds you have now associated with something like the sound of a dentist’s drill. She emerges carrying a thick stack of paper and you realize your instincts are right, she is always a bad thing. It’s the latest bill from the Stooges, which is now the official codeword for the Senate, despite being told by Agent Smith that they don’t need one.

You play the little game you invented last week with her, “Ok… I say… twelve-hundred-and-fifty pages?”

“Thirteen-hundred-twenty-seven, Sir.” You note that she never smiles.

“Damn, I’m getting good at this.”

“Yes Sir.” she says without humor. She eyes the broken chair in the corner, “I told you that the glass was shatter-proof, Sir. Besides, there are probably a hundred Secret Service between here and the fourteen foot high fence.”

“I had to try, Milli. So, which asshole sent me this bill?”

“Well, the main author is Senator Schister and the other significant…”

“Have him come see me, ASAP”

You note the oh-boy look as she sits the bill down on your desk, “Yes Sir.”

A couple of hours of Burn Notice marathon on TV, and you are disturbed again by the awful sound of Milli knocking and unlocking the door to the Oval Office. Thanks to your reputation of being dangerous, the Stooges don’t keep you waiting for them when you call. She enters followed by Schister, “Senator Schister here to see you as requested, Sir,” she says.

She exits and you notice Schister hates the sound of the door being locked almost as much as you hate hearing get unlocked. He also seems particularly nervous about seeing the broken chair.

You wait for a commercial just to annoy him, and then walk to your desk and pick up the bill and show it to him, “Are you out of your mind sending me this? You guys sure are slow learners.” You glance at the broken chair just cause it makes him sweat.

“I don’t understand Mr. President.”

You rap him on the forehead with your knuckles a la Biff from Back to the Future, “What did I tell you idiots about sending me books to read?”

“Well, Sir, if you read it, you’ll see that our bill tackles some complex issues and…”

“Read it?? Nobody has read it, not even the guys who wrote it, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t you.”

“Does that mean you intend to veto it?”

“I’m not going to sign it or veto it, every time I do that I end up wanting to send Smith over to beat the Hell out of either Blitzer or Chris Wallace. No, you’re going to take it back to the Stooges and revise it to my liking.”

Schister swallows hard trying not wonder how the chair got broken, “And if I refuse?”

You feel your eyes narrow, “I’ll have you shot.”

“Sir you can’t do that, it’s not in your power…”

“Oh I didn’t say I’d shoot you, you’re right, I can’t. But I can have Moscow do it.”


“All I have to do is launch a nuke. Then they’ll shoot you for me. And, the Drinking Buddies,” your code name for the Joint Chiefs, “assure me that my bunker will survive and yours won’t.”

“You wouldn’t…” He seems to change his mind about finishing that sentence, “Ok… So exactly how do we revise it ‘to your liking’?”

“Well, let me put it this way, if I get to page three, you better be wearing your lead underwear. Now GET OUT!”

You’re pleased that as he leaves, he backs out, never taking his eyes off you. “Milli if you need me, I’ll be in the Wii Room with the Drinking Buddies. So don’t need me.”

Yes, being President is hard work.


Now that I think about there may be a flaw in this plan. All the people smart enough to not want to be the president will spend their life in college avoiding the draft and the morons who want the job will all drop out of high school.