I'm Not Runnin'

It’s happening again: A buncha you guys want me to run for president. Here’s the news flash: I ain’t runnin’, and you can’t make me!

Let’s nip this right in the bud. You might think I’m takin’ this too seriously much too soon, but consider this: Even if only 19 people wanta draft me for the presidency right now, at the rate the major candidates are shootin’ themselves in the feet, trippin’ over their lips and stabbing each other in the back, I could be the Last Man Standing! If I don’t kill this grass-roots movement quick, I could wind up in the White House. With all due respect for the office, bein’ the Chief Executive comes with too many restrictions for me …

First, there are these insurmountable problems with the Secret Service protection detail. I’ve worked with those folks and admire them, but I have the clear impression that POTUS* ain’t s’posed to PACK! — and that won’t work for me. In fact, I’d be shoppin’ for a third daily-carry Roscoe instead of givin’ up two. And what if, as Little Lizzie would say, “the bad mens come” and the stuff hits the fan? The Pres is supposed to pucker up and hunker down, while highly-motivated dudes in dark glasses with dreams of “takin’ a bullet for the boss” fling themselves over his body and jump in front of him. Not for me, folks.

Yeah, I could just see bein’ pinned down in a gunfight with some altruistic agent in my line of fire, tryin’ to pull a machine pistol outta his underwear with one hand and pushing my head down with the other. “Hey!” I’d ask, “How many times have you shot for your life?” Most likely, the answer would be, “Umm… None, sir.” My response would have to be, “Well, I’ve done it plenty and I’m pretty good at it, so move over, willya?”

The “First Memsaab?"

Oh, man … I just had a flash sight-picture of a buncha death-wishful armed idiots attacking First Lady Helena (the “First Memsaab”?) with the kids in harm’s way! The best and most survivable course of action for the members of her protection detail would be to run and hide behind one a’ those armored limos and stay put until they heard her whistlin’ merrily and policing up her brass. In the aftermath, I can see Secret Service agents with bumper stickers on their private rides reading “Our First Lady Can Whip Yours! (and your First Dude, too!)”

We wouldn’t need the Secret Service for vetting visitors to the West Wing, either. Our dog, Sancho Panza, would gladly be on-duty 24/7 as he is now, standing by to sniff any stranger’s pants. I guarantee his nose, whether applied in the area of the zipper or the seat, will yield more and better character references and “intentions analysis” than any skilled senior agent backed by unlimited intelligence files. The Service would be wise to wire the White House so that if Sancho growls, the whole place goes “Condition Red,” and if he bites, you can bet that whomever’s been bitten probably needs shootin’ as well.

There would have to be some changes in transportation, too. Air Force One could be something a little zippier, like say, a tandem-seat F/A-18D. That way, I could not only leave the entourage and Press Corps behind, but leave ’em ’way behind in seconds. The current “Marine One” helo could be replaced with a gunship, and I wouldn’t mind riding sittin’ on the deck in the open hatch with my feet on the skids and a rifle on my knees. Been there, done that. Otherwise, this business of limousines and being driven everywhere would have to cease.

I don’t like ridin’ in the back of limo’s, and the only time I want somebody else driving is when I’m in an LAV — the view from the gunner’s position is superior. And, there ain’t no such thing as a “stretch limo diesel dually truck.” We’d need one to pull “Ground Force One,” a 30-foot fifth-wheel incorporating a parking deck for two ATV’s and a big barbecue grill. What the heck’s the use of being president if you can’t enjoy an all-American family trip now and then?

Connor OUT