Apparently, it’s an election year. You wouldn’t know it by looking outside and scrutinizing distant plumage of local species with especially coated optics. It’s not in the water. I should know, since I hydrate straight from the source, with my head awkwardly dangling millimeters above the basin. It’s not in the air, or you’d smell it despite a terrific filtration system protruding through the wall. It’s somewhere. It must be.
Since I haven’t followed any of the campaign, I’m not exactly sure who’s still in the mix, or even running. I feel a strange sort of kinship with the Gallic farmer, tending to his grapes and olives around 600 A.D., completely unaware that The Roman Empire fell over a century before. Was that knowledge going to help him with brining? Shoving little garlics into littler olives isn’t a process aided by a detailed history of the Visigoths or Ostrogoths or Teenage Goths. You have to learn the hard way – by ruining bowls of olives before achieving salinity sublimity. How would - let's call him Rick - know what happened on the streets of Roma? He wouldn’t. I’m not entirely positive that we even have a president, or, for that matter, when I’m supposed to capitalize the “p” in the word. If there isn’t one, then I don’t have to worry about it anymore. Deal?
Still, all of this sudden talk about politics has me thinking about the perfect person to fill the job – or if it’s even a person. There’s something to be said for electing statues as opposed to tearing them down. They remain sturdy in old age and despite what pigeons think, most are awestruck by strong, silent types. And given the War on Drugs’ astounding failure, being stoned – or made of stone - isn’t such a bad thing any longer.
Still, statues are heavy and hard to maneuver. The job of a president is to be out there, and the risk of weighing down a helicopter or worse yet, barely fitting into a stretch limo would set a dangerous precedent. Every bird bath and garden gnome in a 100-mile radius of the What-used-to-be-a-perfect-SAT-score Pennsylvania Avenue would want a shot at the square seat in the oval room. We can’t have that. Our backyards and window sills would fall into total chaos if such a thing were permitted.
You know who would be good as Chief Executive, that is, if we’re still looking for candidates. My old imaginary friend, Rupert. Good guy, nice guy, though a little on quiet side. But overall, someone you could definitely count on. He has a real advantage over anyone else – as an imaginary person he could tackle imaginary problems (along with real ones) with a fervor not seen since the imperial presidency of Gabriel Formal Bopkins. You remember him? He was president during The Gherkin Affair, when the price of puny pickles plummeted precipitously, presaging presidential pardons for profligate preservers.
Imagine that.
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