Now it’s me time. YouTube videos—just let me scroll for fifteen minutes. Make that an hour. I can use the bathroom while I do this. You won’t know I’m gone, and I’ll be multitasking. Might check out the Criterion Collection for a bit. Some old movie that is, frankly, not very well made but is just “sturdy” and “does the trick”—“feels like a movie.” Know what I mean? Doesn’t matter. Let me have this.
After that, I will walk to the helicopter and shout answers to questions over the chopper-blade noise. This will be exciting, and no one expects clear, concise, profound answers, so I will provide unclear, messy, shallow answers, and mostly say some version of “We’re working on that very thing right now!” I’ll mention that I’m in a hurry, salute the marine, and board the helicopter. Then the press will be excused and I will exit the helicopter (it never left the ground), salute the marine again, and head back to the White House.
I will attend any and all evening events, but only for the first half hour. I’m happy to take pictures, happy to introduce folks, happy to shake hands and smile and wish everyone well. Then it’s an “Irish goodbye”—out the back door, home to the home part of the house, and a small bowl of yogurt (plain, some granola in it) and a bowl of popcorn (salt and pepper, no butter, no cheese). I will invite my wife to watch me mess around with the TV remote for exactly twenty minutes, give up on that, and crack open my laptop to scroll through the news and mutter the word “idiots.” That’s pretty much my day.
Of course, my “body man” will always be nearby, and if there’s a world-shaking emergency, or even just a national one, he will tell me. If there’s a disaster, I will feel genuinely bad and I’ll say so. I will be happy to read from the Bible (but not the parts about who begat whom). I’ll be a good guy. If I don’t feel particularly generous or kind, I will fake it. I can do this. I’ve been a minor celebrity for twenty-plus years.
Weekends, I will not work. I will not attend any international summits or any of that performative fancy-pants junk. I will be easy to find, as I will be puttering around the White House or walking my dog. If you can’t find me, that means I’ve popped down to the White House bowling alley, where I’ll be thinking, Can you believe this? A bowling alley in the basement? Nuts.
I’ll be honest with you—most days, I won’t even make it onto the news. I won’t do anything that might provide “footage.” I will not say anything remarkable. You won’t know I’m there, and if I’m there you will think, He’s a pretty decent guy—at least he’s making an honest effort. You might also think, Well, he loves his kids. That’s mostly all he talks about, when he talks.
So, yeah, I’ll be your next President. I think I’m the man for the moment. I feel like people might be up for it. Now I gotta go walk the dog. Note: I will not be campaigning; this will be the last you hear from me. Let me know how you vote. Oh, and I promise not to contest the election . . . unless I win. ♦
