I sit in my recliner having a few socials with the cat. Her social of choice, Reddi-Whip and mine Budweiser. I’m watching President-Elect Biden, introducing his potential cabinet members and I can’t help but wonder why I am not among them. Hell, for that matter why isn’t it my cabinet? Indeed, why have I been arbitrarily denied access to the oval office. I have been properly groomed to lead the country, having navigated my taxi cab through the streets of Cleveland, much like setting the course for the country to traverse the treacherous waters of international quagmire. My time as a bartender taught me how to eject a country, drunk with power from an agreement without alienating allies. My time as a prison administrator poured the foundation for surrounding myself with genius’ or budding expert’s in their field. All capable of taking my place, should I fall victim to a sniper of opposing ideology. Yes. I am as bewildered as the next person.
Are we expected to pay for youthful indiscretions the remainder of our lives. Is tossing a lectern from a second story classroom really that bad a thing. Are several occasions of going two out of three falls with classmates enough to eliminate one from public service? And who among us hasn’t pilfered wine from a party store? Certainly, fifty years is a reasonable statute of limitation. In 2000, during my first presidential challenge, our mantra was, “Cocktails R Us.” I was roundly supported by the liquor industry and anti-alcohol anonymous activists. My proposed cabinet consisted of Sparky, Walt and other tavern chums. The Secretary of State and Attorney General were reserved for long time pals, I would pardon from federal prison upon my election. Alas, I lost by a hair and took immediate action. Still in my recliner, I adjusted from one cheek to the other and cracked another beer, threw a haymaker, but missing the cat I doled out another helping of whipped cream.
My concession speeches at Renucci’s Bar and Grille and the Lamplight Restaurant and Drinkery were somber ones. After thirty seconds of each oration, people began speaking over me. Complaining to the respective bartenders each woman gave me a sound beating and as I left I yelled threats of legal action, over my shoulder.
I suppose to the easily impressed, graduating from Princeton or Harvard is a big deal. But what about the guy with a P.H.D. from the streets who is able to have you credentialed with an identity of your choice in three hours, including a passport and have your money moved off shore in two.
I shall immediately fire off a letter to the President-Elect and coyly, let slip I am available for a lofty position with a commensurate salary. Something that may be accomplished from my recliner. Or, I may tackle a crossword puzzle. Crossword it is.
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