There are too many reasons that I can’t be president and none of them are fair. How can a person of my stature be asked to live in our nation’s capital for a minimum of four years? The short answer is I can’t. That shows an extreme prejudice.
Many politicians talk about draining the swamp in Washington, but few if any mean it literally. That’s where I part company with others. I’m not a “swamp thing,” conditioned to a life of abject humidity, subsisting on flies and muck. My first order of business would be to actually drain the swamp, and not in a metaphorical sense.
This country has a real issue with highly-intelligent, wildly competent people. My lack of national electoral success shows that I’m living proof in their collective ire.
For those who say I don’t want the job of president, I’d like to remind them of the concept of false prophets. The fact that I loathe the gig means I would be perfect for it.
I am not into podiums and all the standing that the executive branch requires. The whole reason I took up the cello in grade school and not violin was for the seat. And not the bench like piano players are used to, but a legitimate chair.
I do appreciate that the White House seems to be one of the few offices left in America that has not adopted an open plan. But how much longer can that possibly last? I’m sure we approaching the time when the load bearing walls of the oval office will be replaced with long, windy corridors so the POTUS is on the same plane as the latest batch of interns and speechwriters. It seems the resto f the country has gone this way. Why wouldn’t the highest office in the land open things up?
So yes, there are numerous reasons I can’t be president. But is that reason enough I shouldn’t be?
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