Strangely Naked

The other day, I made a mistake. I talked to a pair of billionaires, who pushed me through a pair of swinging doors, which lead to me running for President of the United States.

For those unaware, it’s pre-presidential primary season in the U.S. What that means, is that it’s “Absurdly rich person with too much time on their hands indulges megalomaniacal delusions” season. It seems like at least once-per-week, somebody declares that they are going to travel to various cities and try to scare people into thinking this candidate is their only hope for salvation. There are a few seasoned politicians, a Canadian with a vaguely Hispanic surname who shut down the government once and now wants to lead it, a former CEO who lost a senate run and decided the next logical step would be to lose a presidential run, a surgeon with no political experience or tangential knowledge of political process, somebody who was once married to a politician and loved that taste of power a little too much, and more than a few people who think “throw your hat into the ring” is a literal statement all wasting a shocking amount of money in a futile attempt to achieve the most stressful and thankless job in the world.

Now, as for me, last Wednesday, I was talking to a couple of CEO brothers in the kitchen of my work, when they suddenly told me I was late and shoved me out of a pair of swinging doors. Before I knew what was happening, I was standing at a podium with a bunch of cameras in my face and miniature American flags everywhere. I looked down, and suddenly, I was dressed like someone who is relatable but still professional, like a cool internet company CEO talking to investors, or like a young “cool” principal who turns the chair around backwards to rap with the kids. And I had an American flag pin on my lapel.

Before I could ask a question, I was assaulted by the reporters:

“How are you going to take back the country?”

“What am I taking it back from or to,” I thought, but before I could speak, a soft rock song–you know, in the generic, unoffensive, pandering style of John Cougar Mellencamp–started playing and everyone was handed a cheeseburger (yellow American cheese) and cans of beer. Everyone cheered and we moved on to a new question.

“Who is that standing next to you,” the dead-eyed reporter asked.

Before I could even look to my right, a man in overalls stained with grease holding a wrench and the deed to his house with a baby strapped to his chest rushed the podium and started answering for me: “Thank you for asking that question, blonde American ideal person. My name is Blue Collar Bill. I work hard for a living…sorry, fer a livin’, an’ I sat down at a Pancake Barn restaurant with this candidate, asked about the direction of this here country of ours that has become a beacon for all of those other lost countries on this beautiful Earth that God protects.  An’ I was tolt that we here citizens need to be empowered by the US Prezeedent to pull ourselves up by us bootstraps. I was tolt that all them Gubment programs is takin’ away our American will ta’ lift ourselves up by our bootstraps. That is the type of candidate I, Blue Collar Bill, want ta’ support! Oh, then we’s talked ’bout God, but, you know, the real God, the Jesus who loved wrastlin’ and guns. I want a candidate that trusts in God, industry, the prophet Reagan, an’ empowerin’ people to do right by themselves with no social–SOCIALIST so-called safety net.”

Suddenly, fireworks went off and a Bald Eagle landed on my shoulder carrying a full-size American flag in its beak.

In my confusion, I didn’t notice the appearance of the member of the opposite sex standing next to me, hugging my arm, waving to the crowd, holding a blue-eyed baby and both had perfectly coifed hair. The person holding the baby leaned into the microphone and stated, “I am so proud to be the expected, traditionally-gendered spouse of this candidate,” which is fairly awkward because I’m already married, “and our well-behaved-through-regular-spanking child…”

The automaton  turned to me and whispered, “What’re people calling babies with penises nowadays?”

Dumfounded, I stammered, “I dunno, Blake?” I looked over and saw this six-year-old whittling parts for a gun.

The humandroid (new name of my ska band) jumped back in, “Blake couldn’t ask for a better, more American role model. We just hope Americans, who need a role model, see those same qualities. CAN I GET AN AMEN!”

The fake child, Blake, started shooting his working, whittled gun into the air, an African American teenager fell from the rafters along with confetti, people in military uniform surrounded me, lifted me into the air and chanted, “We will be safe–Isis will die–God is America.”

Now, I’m on a tour of a bunch of cities. It’s like a tour of the United States with bad speeches. Occasionally, I have to give a reach-around to millionaire (billionaires demand a new hole to defile in one of your organs, typically a kidney), but hey, I wash my hands and got a free vacation. So, no, I’m not really running for president, because that’s something sociopaths do, but if you want to donate, I’m all for wasting donor money in lieu of a great vacation.