2012-01-13 / Commentary

One less candidate for president

40–Something

Not that I have anyone knocking down my door, but I could never run for president. For starters, I don’t have enough suits, and I just don’t like people enough to be around them that much. I need a little peace and quiet.

Even if crowds of adoring fans were chanting my name in some glorious fashion, I’d probably say, “Oh my Goodness! Would you please shut up for a second and let me watch the game?” I don’t think I’d have supporters too long after that.

I can’t imagine shaking thousands of hands all the time. That much contact doesn’t allow much room to beat the odds that at least one of those dirty mitts just came out of a Hardee’s bathroom stall and walked right by the sink with the flowery fragrant soap. With every handshake, I’d be thinking, “Where has this guy been?”… instead of “Can I have your vote?”

All this leads me to wonder how politicians smile all the time? Even if the world were soaking in hand sanitizer, politicians have to sit with those big, plastic grins through the most embarrassing and degrading questions the media can dream up.

“Your opponent says you hate old people, kick three-legged puppies, and hand out broccoli stalks at Halloween…so how do you respond?” …with a big goofy grin. I know running for president is a bit of a beauty contest, but even Miss America loses the smile when she’s talking world peace.

Presidential candidates also love to trot out their families, which would not be good for me. My kids might work for a photoop, but the tape I’d have to put over their mouths during a campaign might not go over so well. They rat me out now. One slight look from their mother and they’re squealing like Khalid Sheikh Muhammad on a metal gurney under a bucket of water.

“Daddy said we could do it! Daddy said we could eat cupcakes with sprinkles before dinner! Daddy’s the one who got Cheeto dust all over the sofa cushions!”

I can only imagine what they’d reveal if they were ambushed by a gaggle of reporters armed with cameras and microphones.

If my isolationist policies, hand-phobia, frown, or confessing kids didn’t kill my campaign faster than a lady friend of Herman Cain, then the money politicians have to beg for surely would. How do they do it? I have trouble asking my neighbor for a cup of flour, and I feel like I’d have to mow her lawn or clean out her garage to pay her back if I got the flour. I can’t imagine what I’d have to do for a few million bucks.

Why go through all that effort anyway? Even if you manage to pull off a victory, half the country hates you, and the rest will probably hate you by the end of four years. Then you get to go through the whole process all over again.

Sorry, America, but no thank you! Pass the Cheetos and let’s watch the game.

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