Bob Wire For President: I’ll Be Your Huckleberry

In the past ten years I’ve been approached to run for Mayor, City Council, and even the State House of Representatives. I’ve turned them all down because, frankly, going to meetings all day is my idea of a soul-grinding hell, and I suspect there would be a lot of work involved. Not to mention the lack of access to both a 1960 Cadillac convertible and an on-staff geisha girl with monkey feet. Who can work under those conditions? Not me, that’s who.

But now our country’s in trouble. Unemployment is inching toward the 10% mark, we’re fighting two wars and sucking around for a couple more, and the economy is crushing the monetary juice out of the ripe melon of our national productivity. A full 89% of the population feel that the current government is lower than a fresh snake turd, yet most Americans are more interested in the underwear Kim Kardashian wore to her wedding than in any policy ideas the President has to help get the economy back on track and put Americans back to work.

So at this time, I have decided to offer my leadership to help turn this ship of state back toward its rightful goal, the shining wharf of prosperity and glee. What will Bob Wire do for us, you ask? What are his qualifications? Why should we risk our future on this rare-do-well musician, this tequila-guzzling wisenheimer? Does he have any experience? Does he have a plan? Does he even know how to drive a ship?

Wow, you sure have a lot of questions. I can answer all those questions and more, with just two words: shut up. Remember when lil’ Ross Perot ran for President in ’92? He was like the irascible uncle, the one who ragged on you for parking your car on his lawn and puking in his rose bushes. In the debates and on the campaign trail, he came off as crazy. Yeah, he was crazy. Crazy like a fox with rabies. If that little Texas shorthorn would have won, he probably would have destroyed the infrastructure of our federal government (or as he called it, “gummint”) from the inside. It might have taken two terms, but our system would have been in shambles and we would have to start over. Kind of like Greece is doing now.

So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll start from Square One. I think the United States is to the point where Washington is too broke to fix. The special interest drudges who bellow long and loud that they are there to serve the people simply cannot be yanked free of the corporate teat. When I take office, they will all be issued immediate status as persona non grata in D.C., and given menial jobs with the various lobbyists whose hands are in their pockets the deepest. Big Pharm, Big Insurance, NRA, all the moneyed corporations and groups that run the country by pulling the strings on their congressional marionettes will now have to deal with these gravy-breathed sycophants in the corporate world.

But what then, Bob? Who will be making policy and legislating the legislation in Washington? Don’t worry, my trepidatious reader. I have a plan. I have the training. You may not know it, but I am an educator as well as a musician and writer. That’s right. An educator. My credentials? I spend a large part of my day teaching motherfuckers a lesson, that’s what.

So once we clear out the riffraff, we bring in the experts who are going to get our once-proud nation back on top, where it belongs. My cabinet will start with just one person: Chuck Norris. In his newly created position, the Secretary of Ass Crackin’ will begin getting the economy in line right away. A half-spin karate chop to the head of Fannie Mae will send her stumbling into Freddie Mac, and they’ll both tumble off the cliff of the crippled housing market into an angry, roiling sea of reasonable interest rates. No more upside down mortgages, no more oversold home loans. That’s payback with interest, bitch, Chuck will say as he dusts his hands off.

Secretary Norris will then don his Black Belt in International Diplomacy. He will enter the arena of multinational conflict, and will force all the squabbling, contentious factions in the middle east region to respect each other’s borders and faiths, simply by taking off his shirt. He will put his right fist (“Cannonball”) through a thick wood plank to show Israel what will happen if they don’t release the Palestinian prisoners they are holding and torturing, and allow Palestine to establish a recognized state. The he will put his left fist (“Haymaker III”) through a redwood stump to show them what will happen if they ever set foot on the Gaza Strip. I’m sick of this Zionist bullshit, he’ll say.

What about the war on terror? Enough with the war nomenclature. We will begin a new era, called the Finger Wag Against Terror (known colloquially as “uh uh UHhhh”). I will name Angelina Jolie the new Director of Homeland Security, if she’s not busy with a Lara Croft sequel. Her uncanny knack for popping up wherever there’s trouble will make her the ideal dominatrix of the skies. It won’t matter whether the terrorists are hiding bombs in their underwear, their shoes, their beards, or their Kenneth Cole man purses. AJ will root them out. She’ll appear in the aisle of that airplane, and give the babbling jihadist the bum’s rush right out the emergency door in Row 14. Sorry, she’ll say as she dusts off her hands, this flight is overbooked. Every time she thwarts another terrorist attack, I will reward her by allowing her to adopt a small child from the country of her choice.

Then I will call on my new Arbiter of National Culture, Clint Eastwood, to ensure that gay marriage is fully legal in all 50 states and U.S. territories. Why should gay Americans not enjoy the right to watch their partner take a morning growler while they’re brushing their teeth, and have sex less often than they pay the mortgage, like us breeders? As Arbiter Eastwood says, “These people who are making a big deal out of gay marriage? I don’t give a fuck who wants to get married to anybody else. We’re making a big deal out of things we shouldn’t be making a big deal out of.”

Something we should be making a big deal out of is the health insurance crisis. The whole insurance-medical complex is swimming around in way too much of our money. When I’m in office, one of the first things I’ll do is appoint Samuel L. Jackson as National Liaison to Health. I will ask Mr. Jackson (Secretary SamJack) to cap physicians’ salaries at one million dollars (I can’t even type that amount without hearing Dr. Evil say it in my head). Same for corporate CEOs. If they want to take home more, they have to provide insurance for one American family for every $100,000 they make above that. Secretary SamJack should have little trouble achieving compliance as he pays a visit to each member of the AMA. (“Say what again.”)

But, Bob, you say, these doctors went to college for eight years or more to earn their degrees they need to practice medicine. Don’t they deserve those obscenely large incomes? Oh, boo-hoo. Hey, I went to college for seven years or so, and all I have to show for it is that I can totally kick your ass in foosball.

The bottom line is that it’s not right, it’s downright un-American, to be living the life of luxury while millions of people in the U.S. go to bed hungry, have no access to decent health care, and don’t have jobs. We have a third-world country WITHIN OUR OWN NATION. This is not the United States I want to hand off to my children. If you think money is more important than people, go ahead and vote that straight Republican ticket. You’ll be rubber stamping an eventual revolution.

But if you want to get this great nation back on track and restore the values that were envisioned by our Founding Fathers, make sure you remember to write in “Bob Wire” when you vote for President in November 2012. I’ll be sure and thank you on my way to the White House, as I drive by in my ’60 Caddy ragtop with a geisha girl riding shotgun.

The real reason I'd like to be your next President: I'm in it for the corn. (Photo: Barb Wire)

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