Well, for some reason you people have elected me President, and that’s just what happened. We’re going to have to deal with it. I don’t know what it means either. And between you and me, I am dangerously unqualified for the position.
I don’t know what most things are. Shiny objects distract me; loud noises frighten me. I become paralyzed at the thought of soup. It took me five minutes to recover from the previous sentence. Can you imagine what our enemies could do with that information? They could disrupt our entire military chain of command with the mere mention of bisque. Seven minutes have elapsed since the previous sentence. I am hungry and would like a snack. But what? Something hot, I think, preferably liquid. Perhaps a hot liquid with meats and vegetables in it. Add noodles? Why not? I’m not buying. You are.
As for the job itself, I intend to do one. If something needs to be addressed, I will look into it. Google. Twitter. Whatever.
I will strive to keep most of you out of the hospitals, or keep you inside of the hospitals, whichever one sounds more appealing to the average voter. I don’t have a preference either way. Frankly, I don’t understand the issue of healthcare, and have twice extracted my own rotten teeth without anesthesia, so I don’t see what all the fuss is about.
And if you need real surgery you just go to your Uncle Herb, who lives out in the woods. Everyone has an Uncle Herb. You may not realize it, but you have one. Uncle Herb knows many things, and will take out your appendix with nothing more than a hacksaw and a bottle of gin. You pay the man in honeysuckle, a flavor he enjoys.
And if you need stitches, you use airplane glue. It’s just as good. You just squeeze it into the gash and pinch your skin together. What’s the matter, you don’t know about airplane glue? You don’t know about gashes? Have I not told you about my GASH? It was my whole fucking campaign.
You could paint the model airplanes, too. You could color them just like the pictures on the box, or if you weren’t skilled enough for that you could go your own way. I drew a doggy on mine, and really fucked up the wings.
But your lack of culture isn’t what I wanted to talk about. What I want to do here and now is to make a formal confession to the people of this great nation. Now, my many handlers have strongly advised against my telling you this, but I wanted to get out in front of things before one of you vultures in the media breaks the story and uses it against me. That’s just the kind of guy I am, and I told my aides I know the American People will appreciate my honesty.
So here it is: I used to be in a sex cult.
Don’t worry; it wasn’t one of those Bilderberg, Bohemian Grove, Eyes Wide Shut type of sex cults. No, no. This one I made. And I assure you that there was never a single influential politician or CEO or celebrity in attendance. It really started as a casual thing, a way to get to know the neighbors better, or to reconnect with your cousins. Uncle Herb even showed up a couple times.
But more than that I think I was just bored.
Truth be told I had grown quite tired of banging my wife, Linda, and a neighborhood sex cult seemed like a good way to get my grubby hands on some strange. Okay, I’ll just say it: I don’t believe in monogamy. I really don’t get it. I don’t know what it’s supposed to accomplish. I’ve been told by several of my handlers that this is an unfathomably stupid thing to say to voters. They tell me that, despite all reason and common sense, marriage is actually quite popular. But I say the truth is more popular. I don’t like marriage, and frankly, I don’t like dogs either. And I’m not too crazy about this Jesus guy. But I digress.
Also I kicked a dog once. But I want you to know that’s not who I am as a person. It was just this one incident, this single moment in time, and I was in a really shitty mood. Not that I’m making excuses here. I mean, I did it. I kicked a dog once. And one other time.
Various aides are telling me to wrap it up, trying to pull my hands from the keyboard, and one of them has the sense to go for the power cord below the desk. I just kicked him in the head, a hell of a lot harder than I ever kicked any of those fucking dogs. But who gives a shit, plenty more where he came from. I wipe my shoes on his unconscious back. I have just punched all of the other aides. They are rubbing their arms because they are so sore. I am the punch buggy champion. I can see a buggy coming from three miles off. Grandma used to tell me so. Bitch learned the hard way I don’t fuck around. Just like I won’t fuck around with your country. A doctor has just jammed a syringe full of something into the base of my neck. Says it will make me sleepy. But I am rock hard. No one will stop me from getting my head thoughts out to the people. I want there to be no walls between us. I want to walk inside your house. At night. While you sleep. I am watching over you, America. I am your new Dad, and unlike your real Dad, I will stick around, unless I get bored or something. I don’t know; I’ve always wanted to direct car commercials. It’s just this little fantasy I have. Hold on, the doctor is telling me he just accidentally injected me with liquid cocaine. Probably explains why my erection just broke through the desk. As I type this, the keyboard is balanced precariously upon the tip of my very erect penis. It teeters left and right like a seesaw, and I cannot help but think that this rather upsetting visual is somehow an apt metaphor about the never-ending power struggle between the Democrats and Republicans of this stupid country, but I can’t seem to articulate it and I have to take a walk. I have to walk off the cocaine. Join me now on the Whitehouse lawn for some cocaine. I will be available between the hours of right now and next April. Just tell the guy at the gate, “Hey, man. Let me in to buy cocaine from the President of the United States of America.” He’ll know what that means.
Kthxbye
Love, Your President, Harvard J. Cracker
P.S. I <3 the Saudis.