Let’s say there was a war to end all wars someday. A real doozy. A war so so devastating, its final campaign was the dispatch of a thousand nuclear warheads targeting the most populated cities of the world, ensuring the survival on no-one.
But just for shit’s sakes, remarkably, I somehow managed to survive the event. That only me and a bunch of half-wit cannibals from Papua New Guinea were all who remained.
I still wouldn’t want to be President of the United Whatever and here are my top ten reasons why:
- There’d be no button left to push. Half the fun of being President (I suspect) is having my admin ring up the President of Guam (or some other shithole nation) on days when I’m bored, informing him if he doesn’t sock at least half his country’s wealth into a numbered offshore account in the Caymans, there’s a big red button in my office with his name on it. But now, my Oval Office has been replaced by something resembling a homeless shelter with no big red button anywhere in sight. Shit.
- No Cuban Cigars survived the blast. I love Cuban cigars but there would be none left. Not after a blast like that. Equally as disturbing would be the conspicuous absence of an idiot intern with whom I could bang with those same cigars. But there are no interns either. This makes me sad in a weird way but I’m not sure why. You’d think the absence of one would negate the need for the other but in my mind, it’s really unclear. In either case, I wouldn’t want to be President without both.
- No slum neighborhoods. Every U.S. President throughout history has had a street named after him, and, its nearly always in a slum neighborhood. With all the slums gone, having been reduced to ash, I’d have to forgo having my own boulevard namesake. And while I could go around spray painting my name all over rubble with no consequences, somehow, it wouldn’t be the same.
- Air Force One is now Air Force None. Yes the plane was joyriding, keeping the former President safe while the world was being destroyed. But now it’s just sitting there on the tarmac with no pilot, no fuel and, no President. (He eventually landed, stepped outside to take a peek at the devastation and was instantly fried by the radiation) This is really fucked-up, and, one hell of a reason for my not wanting to be President. Being unable to go cruising in AF-1 on a Friday night, doing low-speed passes over the local high-school football game would be a real downer. Besides, all my high-school honeys are now dust.
- Porn. I don’t really see me getting my Presidential freak-on with some jabbering, low-hanging, pointed-tittied survivor from New Guinea. At least not without some jealous tribesman trying to kill and boil me in a big black cauldron. Fuck that. That’s why I’d need some internet porn. But the internet is now lint, and for me to conjure up distant memories of my one and only adolescent sex experience—a high-school handy under the bleachers isn’t going to be enough to satisfy this Presidential libido. No sir. Another good reason to not want to be Pres.
- There’d be no wars left to start. Part of the draw of being a U.S. President I would think, is how you’d be the most powerful man on the planet—able to start shit with any country—anytime, anyplace. Well not anymore. Everyone’s dead, taking all the joy out of fucking with other nations. Well, not everyone. There’d always be those fucks in Papua I could kill if need be. But I don’t see the point. They really don’t have anything I want. They’re broke and have no natural resources I could plunder like oil or uranium, and their women. Their women wouldn’t even make it at the Candy Store and that’s got to be the worst strip club in all of the United States. Besides, they draw flies.
- No peeing in public. Unequivocally, the best part of having a non-presidential baloney pony is the ability to pee all over the place. However, as President, I can’t see myself going around pissing in public after a dozen or so pints. Presidents are not invisible. Not like me anyway after a night of drinking, making the likelihood of getting busted a real possibility. That just wouldn’t be right. In fact, it’s downright unbecoming of a standing (or sitting) U.S. President. I shudder at the thought.
- Nothing would be illegal. One might think, and wrongfully so, that all my years of Catholicism made for an unhealthy fear of rotting in Hell someday, the result of a life fraught with debauchery. Again, wrong. Doing shit that’s illegal is half the fun of living. Whether it be psychotropic drugs or shoplifting a present for my kid’s 2nd birthday, all good fun. But imagine a world where no one’s left and everything’s legal. And, you’re the President. Where’s the fun in that? Sorry, count me out.
- Unspent Campaign Donations. If elected and on the off-chance there were unspent campaign funds remaining in my war chest, it wouldn’t be good. Knowing me, I’d probably go on a strip club bender until all the money was gone. One small problem. No strip clubs (and no women) meaning I’d have to sit in the burned-out remains of some former strip club, tossing singles at cockroaches or rats or something. I don’t see myself doing this. Even as President. Do rats have tits?
- Lying is hard. Ever since the time grandpa caught me checking out the neighbor girl’s bush and then lying about it to his face, I’ve never really cared much for lying. It’s hard and you need to be really good at it if you don’t want to get busted. I think Presidents are good liars and if the truth was ever known, probably did their fair share of ogling the neighbor kid’s hoo-haws too. But with no cigars, women, porn, anything illegal, and no-one left to impeach me, I just don’t see the appeal of being President.
Yeah, no…I don’t want to be President. Ever.