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Let's Just Not Have One! It's been a week and a half, and I think I'm finally exhibiting signs of Election Fatigue, somewhat less universally known by its precise clinical name, publius electorum incredulus exhaustingus. My tired, continually bemused body put up a terrific fight, to be sure, but the symptoms are unmistakable to the trained observer. The phrase "Race Too Close to Call" can no longer be purged from my field of vision; it remains, fixed and mocking, surrounded by a smeared orange halo wherever I look, like the afterimage of a flash bulb, the title screen of an arcade video game, or Jennifer Lopez, glimpsed for the merest fraction of a second as I frenziedly change channels, hoping like hell that it will escape my wife's notice that I've flipped past the sultry singer / actress / special effect eight times already during the same beauty-in-a-box commercial. I can no longer remember a time when I watched prime-time weeknight network television. And, most disturbingly, I think I have fallen for Chris Matthews, and am entertaining fantasies of him and I, naked save for thong briefs and sunscreen, swimming in a vast ocean of incomprehensible butterfly ballots and singing to Jimmy Buffett's version of "Why Don't We Get Drunk." (Whilst you endeavor probably futilely, sorry to say to evict that particularly heinous visual from your now-irretrievably-bent cerebrum, I'll happily knock down yet another terrifically appreciated belt of Jameson's, the latest in a string of very desperately needed stiff drinks which have, as a direct result of our historic non-election election, pushed me headlong over the brink into fully realized alcoholic dependency. Salut.) I can tell how completely the universe has cracked by the unrecognizable actions of my spouse, who in her thirtieth year has finally discovered that our satellite television package has more to offer than "Grease," football games, and "90210" reruns. In the span of only a handful of days, this strikingly beautiful bastion of political indifference has become an expert in her own right on all things electoral: from Nader's insidious larceny of the heretofore-ignored Consumer Reports / Spotted Owl Society vote to Buchanan's inexplicable celebrity among Gold Coast Holocaust survivors; from the voting habits of Dan Marino die-hards (both of them) to the now-infamous "hanging chad," previously known to me only as a particularly well-endowed Chippendale's performer but now forever notorious for potentially disenfranchising thousands upon thousands of the punch-card autistic. Suddenly, my beloved, famous within a six-block radius of our home for railing heatedly and at high volume and turning purple whenever the Aggies fail to convert (often) or Aikman is sacked (even yet still more often), has turned her less-than-complimentary attention to the improbable celebrities of the moment, the election-impaired: "What do you mean, you're going to count them again?" "God, how long are you gonna drag this out?" "You lost, already. Get over it!!!" In each case, followed by the inevitable, "Aaaaauuuuuuugh!!! You people are so stupid!!!" She actually stands up, throws her hands out like a wide receiver waving off a pass, juts her chin forward, and boggles incredulously while shrieking at the top of her increasingly partisan lungs. The baby cries; the cat flattens her ears against her skull and hides, terrified, in a pile of laundry; swirling eddies of wifely disfavor erupt into physical being and systematically whirl, like miniature tornadoes, throughout the house, upending stacks of bills, magazines, and minor furniture. I stare, raptured, as pulsating blood vessels begin to exhume themselves from my wife's gentle face and crawl like unsettled spiders across her cheeks and forehead. And she's only getting started she's just beginning to simmer, it'll be at least another minute before she boils over completely and pops her capacitors, collapsing onto the sofa in a wasted heap of frustrated Republican passion and frothy drool. I am proud and genuinely frightened beyond description. My wife is becoming a political animal. A rabid one, to be sure, certain to be destroyed should Animal Control capture her but a political animal nonetheless. My heart swells in the warm fullness of husbandly love and mild panic. However I digress. One of my colleagues and I were discussing the current Succession Standoff a few days ago, and bringing all our combined creative energies namely, caffeine, sugar, and Velamints to bear on the situation. How to resolve the issue? Bush, or Gore? Spoiled, tepid, only marginally impressive scion of a politically noteworthy family, or um, the other one? The largely incoherent, or the hugely incontinent? Blubber, or bluster? The Smirk? Or, The Sigh? We thought of various options, many many harebrained schemes which would result in a very definite and inarguable outcome. We could toss 'em both in a cage, for instance, and deprive them of food and water. Eventually, one would eat the other, presumptively acquiring the loser's political base and grass-roots support, as well as their potential energy and complex carbohydrates. Or, we could stage a "Celebrity Deathmatch" of sorts, a contest certain to draw that elusive and commercially viable Generation-Why-Bother audience. Or, compel them to engage in a "the lady or the tiger?" competition behind one door, the Presidential seal, august and profound, symbol of nearly limitless power, authority, and legitimacy, not to mention the potential to interrupt regularly scheduled programming. Behind the other door erm, a tiger. Eventually, we realized that each of our proposed resolutions would, by definition, result in the agonizing death of at least one of our worthy candidates. This prospect, morbid as it might be, didn't disturb us nearly as much as the possibility that they might both be killed, in which case we might get stuck with a Clinton presidential-term trifecta, or, even less savory, President Nader. [Insert Homeric shudder here.] It was at this precise moment, as we seriously contemplated Armageddon, that my astute colleague asked what would become the pivotal question: (For those of you desperate for a point to this column, read on. You won't find one, but you might still be entertained.) "Do we really need a President? I don't think so, do you? Let's just not have one!" My hand raised, my elbow bent, poised to deliver a stinging and decisive smack upside his obviously overripe noodle, I stopped and actually thought about his absurd proposition. Do we need a President? Whatever for? It's not like they really do anything, after all. They propose legislation, which never passes. They veto legislation, which is hardly ever remembered, let alone missed, save for those self-important Sunday-morning gabfests. They only serve to justify the continued existence of dozens of reporters, to diddle the odd vacuous intern, to philosophize about the eternal meaning and definition of is, to ensure that America's reputation overseas continues to erode as we gradually become virtually indistinguishable from National Lampoon's Animal House. But do they really ever contribute anything? Hey, do we really need one? And I was reminded of another republic not Plato's, but rather the Roman system of government, prior to the rise of the Caesars. Back, oh, twenty-one centuries ago, the legislative branch the Senate held supreme governmental authority and guaranteed the rule of law. They passed all the bills, approved all expenditures, drafted all treaties, and still managed to find time to build viaducts and amphitheaters and a Colosseum or two. Only in times of the gravest danger to the State for instance, civil war, or insurrection, or a Punky Brewster marathon would a "chief executive" be thrown up, through the passing of the senatus consultium ultimum (yes, this time, I'm using actual Latin. Impressed yet? No? Well, what do you know, anyway?), or Ultimate Decree. Essentially, in enacting this Ultimate Decree, the Senate would elect a dictator, who was invested with all the State's authority and power in resolving the current crisis and not for a moment longer. Deal with it, then step down, retire to the south of Gaul, and cede power back to the Senate again. Only it didn't always work out that way, did it? But that's another column, and the fantasy is nice, huh? Think about it! Without a President in permanent residence, we could rent 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue the whole shebang, not just the Lincoln bedroom out daily to the highest bidder! That way, all the rich and frustrated alpha males who'll never be elected President will get a chance to pretend as if they really were The Most Powerful Man On Earth. Ross Perot, Steve Forbes, Donald Trump, pay attention: This would be your only opportunity to ever "have" the White House. Seriously, we could even set it up as a travel-agency "experience": Prez For A Day! Kind of like a fantasy camp for the politically inept. Dine on the Van Buren china! Enjoy your favorite music on Nixon's reel-to-reel! Recline before FDR's fireplace with friends and chat to your heart's content! This too can be yours! Operators are standing by, all major Cayman Islands bank accounts accepted! Proceeds from "The Presidential Experience" could go towards repaying the national debt, or bolstering Social Security, or maybe restoring the phantom "peace dividend." For more randy "guests," or those desiring to revisit the Clinton era, we could offer up the Oval Office and its adjoining corridor at hourly rates, and outfit that area with massage table, humidor, and adult-channel availability. Oh, we'd be just rolling in it! The payments made to our nation's coffers might easily defray other, money-siphoning governmental ventures: Amtrak, the U.S. Postal Service, that whole pesky Department of Defense thingy. Yes, we might actually be able to sustain this unprecedented decade of American economic prosperity! Without an executive branch of government, we could save money in so many respects: federal campaign matching funds, to start. And no outlandish proposals to spend billions on this or that currently expedient populist measure. And no more annoying interruptions of prime November "sweeps" programming to devote to two guys who couldn't find a mandate with both hands, a map, and a halogen lamp. And it might all be possible, it might all be doable, if we could only agree to just not have one. The economy wouldn't collapse. The sky wouldn't fall. The Cowboys wouldn't suddenly make the playoffs. And maybe, just maybe, I could quit watching MSNBC all the time.
You can contact Rick Cromack at: cromack-at-rockzilla.net |
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