Dear Aunt Sophie,
I can’t believe what’s happening. All these years and all this hard
work, all this planning and it’s falling apart before my eyes. I’m
referring to my presidential campaign. I’m supposed to be nominated
unanimously and then I’m supposed to be elected in a landslide. That’s
how we always planned it. Can this really be happening?
I’ve tried everything. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve worn pink,
yellow, navy. I’ve even had, well, work done (tired eyes make you look
so much older, you know). But none of it seems to make any difference.
What the f**k is going on here? This wasn’t supposed to happen, even if
I did nonchalant it in a couple of states (that’s baseball lingo - you
knew I was a fanatical Yankee fan, right?).
I’m not getting all the endorsements I was counting on, either.
Everyone was supposed to endorse me. Are there really people outside of
a few right-wing loons who think someone else would be a better
Unfortunately, my husband seems to be part of the problem. Sometimes
I wonder if he really wants me to win. He’s supposed to be my lightning
rod, to say the kinds of things I can’t get away with. But the a**hole
goes too far. He just compared my Muslim African-American drug dealer
of a rival to a black race hustler. That’s outrageous. Anybody could
have told him it would backfire. You can call that boy, er, man
anything you want as long as you pretend not to notice his skin color.
But now, thanks to Sir Galahad everybody knows he’s black.
I put up with the big f***ing mutt because people like him. But I’m
starting to rethink it. Doesn’t he understand that the only way he’s
getting back into the White House without a formal invitation is if I
get elected? There must be a silver lining somewhere but I sure as hell
don’t see it.
And if I don’t win in November – oh, never mind, it’s just too
horrible to contemplate. Can you imagine being stuck in the Senate for
the rest of your life? I think I’m going to cry.
Demsel in Distress
Whatever you do, don’t cry. Whether you like it or not men can still
vote in this country and you want them to think you’re one of them.
You must learn to trust the American voter’s intelligence.
Endorsements aren’t that big a deal. People take them with a grain of
salt, especially when they come from aquatically inept whales. Seek
backing from the kind of people with whom the voters are more in tune:
scruffy documentarians in baseball caps, women’s studies professors who
tolerate the existence of burqas but not of men who open doors for
them, actresses who advocate restricting toilet paper to 5 squares per
flush – you know, the kind of folks regular Americans look to for
intellectual and spiritual guidance.
Your biggest problem, though, is that you’re too likeable. A
maternal demeanor and bubbly laugh will take you just so far with
today’s tough-minded electorate. Even though they’ll never admit it,
people love a good scolding. (Why do you think your local dominatrix is
doing such a brisk business?) Americans want a president who will make
them floss every day. They want to know that the leader of the free
world cares enough to keep track of every taco chip they eat and
whether they’re catching their zzz’s.
Enough with the sweetness and light. Tell the voters the truth: King
Canute couldn’t hold back the sea but Congress can prevent climate
change; no woman is illegal even if she did crawl into San Diego
through a tunnel; one hundred percent taxation may hurt a little but
it’s good for you.
And don’t be so hard on your husband. Our country’s first black
president couldn’t have been making a racially-charged invidious
comparison. He must have been referring to your opponent’s height – you
know, Jesse Jackson is tall, your rival is tall. I’m sure the average
voter understood that your husband was simply calling attention to the
possibility that your opponent has Marfan’s Syndrome.
As for the silver lining you’re looking for, it’s a seven-letter
word that rhymes with remorse. But first check the expiration dates on
those statutes of limitation.
Good luck and God bless.