HAIL TO THE CHIEF?

Why I’ll NEVER be President of the United States

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by Joe Buonfiglio

One of the most important holidays we celebrate each year here in the US is again upon us.  It is a time when we wear our hearts out on our sleeves, when our emotions overtake our brains and we gladly let them.  And while some of us can be blue on this day, red seems the more prevalent color donned by all who revel in the occasion.

VALENTINE’S DAY?

Why the hell would you think that?!  In this red state versus blue state political dystopia we call “America,” I was of course referring to Presidents Day.  Or is it Presidents’ Day?  President’s Day?  You know, fucking Washington’s Birthday.  Just one more opportunity for the propaganda channels masquerading as “news” to stir the political pot and get us all worked up about the dumbasses we get to choose between as we think about upcoming or past elections.

(Valentine’s Day?  Seriously?  You’re such a whore for flowers and chocolate!)

Now don’t panic.  This isn’t going to be some rant as to why the political system in the US is so fucked up.  Going into that is the mission of blogs WAY above my pay grade.   No, this is just me harkening back to the days when my daddy would put me on his knee and tell me that I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up, even president of the United States.

Okay, that’s a fantasy.  I have absolutely no memory of my father ever putting me on his knee and he used to call me the “Eleventh Hour Kid,” in that I’d always fail in the 11th hour, fall at the last minute, peter out before crossing the finish line….  Being president?  Me?  The old man had me convinced I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached; becoming the most powerful person on the planet didn’t seem as if a realistic vocation-option.

So if you’ll give me a second here to wipe the tears from my eyes as my inner child crumples into a fetal position, I’ll explain to you…

WHY JOE BUONFIGLIO
WILL NEVER BE
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

BAD PANTS:  I have bad pants.  And bad shirts.  Bad socks, bad underwear, bad hair and, quite frankly, I smell funny.  I’m a bit of a slob, really.  Hell, as I write this, I’m sitting in my underwear smoking a cigar and sipping on a glass of really cheap wine.  While this seems fine for an absurdist dark-humor writer, it’s not really an image with which a political kingmaker can work.  An underdog is one thing, but you can’t go so far that mange is suspected to have set in.

THE BIG, RED BUTTON: Me with access to the nuclear arsenal the US has just waiting on submarines and out in the vast nothingness of North and South Dakota?  Me?

Fuck yeah, I’d use them!  I’d use them to solve everything!

Things in the Middle East getting nasty?

“Nuke ’em!”

Political opponents saying bad things about me?

“Nuke ’em!”

Auto shop overcharged me?  Doctor says I’m getting too fat?  Preschool teacher complains my kid refuses to color within the lines?

“Nuke ’em!  Nuke ’em!  Nuke the living fuck out of ’em!”

Which all leads me to…

THE SMALL, RED BUTTON: This button, however, is in my brain.  For not only would I obviously have a problem exercising restraint when it comes to dropping nuclear bombs, it is painfully evident that I cannot resist dropping the “F-Bomb” either.

“Mister President, could you please explain your economic policies designed to lead us into a new era of prosperity for the American people?”

“Well, Tom, that’s a fucking great question.  And, the fucking American people deserve a fucking great answer.  For too fucking long, we’ve all bought into this fucking trickle-down bullshit.  So unless we’re just all fucking idiots running around with our dicks in our hands, we’ve got to pull our heads out of our asses and turn this fucking battleship around.”

See?  Not very dignified.  Not … well … presidential.  And while that is the type of raw honesty I would LOVE to see coming out of the next American president’s mouth, it might be hard to explain to schoolchildren why their president is using language that their parents would beat them with a belt for if it came out of their candy-holes on the playground.

KIDS IN UNISON AT SCHOOLS ACROSS AMERICA: “I pledge allegiance to the fucking flag of the fucking United States of fucking America…”

Elementary schools throughout this great land would have to install a bunch of extra modular classrooms just to handle all the kids in detention.

NOT ALL THAT MOTIVATED: The road to the White House is a long one.  You need a candidate who wants the big chair in the Oval Office more than he wants his own children to have a happy and healthy life.  I’m just not that ambitious in the political arena.  I don’t want power; I just want money.  I’m more of a criminal than a politician.

Of course, with that mindset, I guess I could still do really well as a politician in New Jersey or North Carolina.

Hmmmmm.

Maybe I should give this one a little more thought.  I could be underselling myself.

LEGACY MY ASS: So if I did the whole four- to eight-year stint as the ultimate public servant, when I was done with my tour of duty as the head honcho, I’d want to chill out for the rest of my life; just have my Secret Service detail score me some kine bud, make the more-than occasional liquor store runs and guard my growing ever-fatter ass as I rake in the bucks making the sporadic speech here and there on the Big Kahuna lecture circuit.  But this shit where you’re expected to fight for some cause or charity to secure your legacy in the history books when you leave office?

Fuck that!

Have you seen how gray a US president gets after just a couple of years in the hot seat?  If you’re going to have essentially eons of your lifespan robbed from you by the nonstop stress coming from being in the service of your country, you deserve to kick back in Vegas, baby, not give and give and give even more when you’re finally out of office.  Charitable works?  Using your name and influence to help those in need?  Cry me a river.  I served my time.

Yes, I know I’m a bad man.

Yes, I know there is a special place in Hell reserved for people like me.

What do you want me to do, work in a soup kitchen?  I was president of arguably the most powerful nation on Earth.  Somebody needs to be getting me some fucking soup, don’t you think?

And those cute little oyster crackers.

I love those fucking things.

How do they make them, anyway?

And that creates the perfect segue to finally lead me to…

I’M TOO EASILY DISTRACTED: If you’re the Commander & Chief, you have got to be focused.  I mean like Einstein-on-the-cusp-of-creating-the-Theory of Relativity fucking focused.  Me?  I’d be more like a kitten chasing that laser pointer red-beam around the West Wing.

“You mean I can have all the ice cream I want and somebody will bring it to me whenever I ask?”

“So if I want to have, let’s say, ten-thousand Marines invade Québec, I can do that?”

“I can force the Joint Chiefs of Staff to have a poker night with me on Christmas Day if I get bored?”

“Did you know there are these little fucking breath mints all over the place with the White House seal on them?  So, like, that’s pretty cool.”

“Let me get this straight.  I can take a book out at the Library of Congress, keep it until it’s like three years overdue, and not pay a fine?  Sweet.”

“This place comes with its own bowling alley just for me?  Get the fuck outta here!”

“I have my own bathroom?  What?!  SEVERAL bathrooms?!  All for my ass and my ass alone?  And I can be all like, ‘I just took a shit.  Clean bathroom #6 immediately in case I might have to do it again after lunch’?  Can I take meetings in there if I want?”

“So if I wanted to turn the Lincoln Bedroom into a bondage sex-den and have the Speaker of the House run around in nothing but a Girl Scout uniform reenacting scenes from German Expressionist cinema while the entire offensive line of the New York Giants delivers bagels with just a smear of…”

You get the idea.  The missiles would be crisscrossing the sky as I stood around considering if nudie dart-flights are an appropriate gift for the visiting Irish ambassador.

Me?  President of the United States?

Trust me.  You’d rather have Edward Scissorhands trim your pubes.

© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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