How To Be The Biggest, Bestest, Smartest, Most Purdy President There Ever Wuz

For the longest time I thought that old Kenny Rogers song was about laundry. I mean, you gotta’ know when to fold ‘em, know when to hold ‘em. You gotta’ know when to walk away, and know when to run. If those lyrics aren’t about socks, underwear, ripped-to-shreds T-shirts, and blue jeans covered in muddy paw prints, then I don’t know what is. But, the truth of the matter is that there are days when I just don’t want to do laundry. Hell, there are weeks when I don’t want to do laundry.

Living alone, and rarely seeing people other than my pups, this operational method makes perfect sense. It’s not that I live in squalor; I checked my ethical and moral beliefs the other day and discovered that I am firmly opposed to squalor. That’s probably a stance that both the current US President and the remaining gaggle (emphasis on "gag") of candidates should appropriate. It’s safe; it says nothing and hardly anyone would be strongly opposed to such a stance. Speaking of which, this whole political process is somewhere between mildly amusing and seriously nauseating. It's nothing more than a stupid game played by stupid people (or, if not stupid, people who have a rather large strand of weasel DNA bopping around in their genetic make-up). It really should not be a surprise that we have such incompetent leaders, because anyone smart enough to run for higher office is smart enough not to run for higher office. I’ve identified several characteristics inherent to the type of person whose most fervent wish is to campaign for one of the chairs at the big table. None of them are especially pleasant. 1: You must have the personality and temperament of a used-car salesman. Moreover, it’s not good enough to be a mild-mannered used car salesman who simply wants to sell you a used Ford pickup, go home, eat some chicken and watch Jeopardy. It is imperative that you possess the traits of the type of odious, obnoxious sales-ferret who will pester you for days on end . . . and probably try to run up and down your leg.

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In short, if you’re going to run for any state or federal seat you must be a stalker. For best results you should have actually been convicted of stalking. It’s all about credibility. 2: Telling people what to do, sticking your nose in the most private aspects of their business, is muy importante for those who wish to wield the reins of power. You must be a complete and absolute control freak. Almost everyone, at one time or another, had that elementary school teacher who hovered over your little desk and berated you because your penmanship looked less like John Hancock calligraphy and more like cuneiform bird-scratches. This teacher was insistent you follow all the rules; an oblong pink eraser was okay but a Frito Bandito eraser on the end of your jumbo-diameter pencil was both a crime against humanity and a mortal sin. More succinctly . . . if you’re going to run for any state or federal seat you must be arrogant, haughty, autocratic and dogmatic. For best results you should have been fired from your job as High Sheriff of the Third Grade for making the student who flubbed the spelling bee stand on one leg for seven hours (because that’s how kids learn . . . don’t ya know). 3: You must think you are a messiah, or if not a messiah, at least one of the more renowned prophets. Think Moses, rather than the lice-encrusted wino who sits in the oleander bushes behind the 7-11 and rants about the end of the world while main-lining string cheese. Summation? You have to be crazy as a loon, but articulate enough that your insanity will fool about 85% of the country into thinking you’re profound. There’s a fine line between crazy and brilliant. There’s a finer line between crazy and full of artfully delivered crap. 4: Have memorable hair. Spend hours on your hair. Own a tanning bed. Talk about (in the same breath) how rich you are and how you relate to folks who make $3.65 an hour pulling hides off deceased bovines at the local rendering plant. This means that, from an early age, you told so many whoppers that you no longer recognize that your lies are lies. To quote George Costanza on an old episode of Seinfeld, “It’s not a lie if you believe it.” I’m not going to go to deeply into what the current crop of clowns have said or done, but I will touch on it. Donald wants to build a wall that comes complete with a big, glass sliding-door that better allows Mexicans to gaze in awe at his very large hands. Ted thinks he’s the archangel Michael and is just raring to jump the top rope and slap three head butts, two atomic drops and one sleeper hold on Satan. Bernie never met a Master Card that he didn’t want to max out, and believes that filling your tank with pond scum (and other autotrophic organisms) will allow your car to get 700 miles per gallon. Marco has decided that he really is an island in south Florida, and being a heavily developed landmass, does not have to show up for important Senate votes. Hillary believes in anything and everything, depending upon who is writing the check and the demographic make-up of her audience at any given minute. In just the past few years she has been both for and against gay marriage, the war in Iraq, Goldman Sachs, income inequality, gun control, climate change, and international trade agreements. She’s all for women’s rights, except for those women who have been abused by her “husband.” She is the most funny of all candidates, as she actually thought we would believe that the death of Americans in Benghazi was caused by YouTube. Hillary is more out-of-touch than a germaphobe in a sensory-deprivation tank. And that’s enough of that. It all reminds me of my laundry basket, assuming I left it out in the rain for a few days and then stuck it in a hot closet for a few months. There’s a certain aroma there . . . and it ain’t roses. As an aside, it should be noted that (along with other modern conveniences like a cell phone) I do not own a clothes dryer. I just hang everything off the line. It would be nice if we could do the same thing with politicians. Hanging them all out to dry, airing out the stench and noting the various rips, holes, stains and patches would make for a fine vetting process. They’ve already got the “flapping in the breeze” technique down pat. We simply need to recall the wisdom of Kenny Rogers. We gotta’ know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away and know when to run. None are worth holding, and all should be folding. The entire cast should be walking away, and none of them are fit to run.