There’s a lyric from a Faith No More song, “Falling to Pieces,” that perfectly describes how I feel about certain of life’s most pertinent issues. The current crop of spring shoe fashions. Running. Crunchy Cheetos versus Puffy. And, of course, politics. It goes like this: “I’m somewhere in between my love and my agony.”
First, there is the absolute, passionate love I have for the good ol’ U.S. of A., which, to steal from Craig Ferguson, is the single greatest idea anyone’s ever had for a country, ever, in the history of the universe. Amen.
Then there’s my agony. Being, of course, the fact that 99.987 percent of the assholes running the gub’ment and the idiots who put them in office have forgotten this important fact.
So as much as I’d like to la, la, la, la, la myself into believing that we’re all big enough boys and girls to live under what I consider to be the El Perfecto, Ne Plus Ultra of poleetical systems (anarcho-capitalism), I realize that, unfortunately, we are not. Big enough. Responsible enough. Non-ADD enough.
Ergo, gub’ment. A necessary evil.
At the very least, then, I can participate by positing what it would look like if Moi were in charge.
Here ya go:
Moi's Running Mate: the Ivanator. He’s got enough pit bull in him to stand firm on the issues, enough Shar-pei to use his facial wrinkles to disguise the fact that he’s snoozing away in session when things get downright yawn-inducing.
Moi's Weapons of Mass Distraction: Ms R, EmmaK, Cake, Luka, Kiki. Not only do these gals have better abs, boobs, and behinds than our enemies, they’re smarter, too. I realize Ms R will have to take time off from her own dictatorship (and will hopefully give me time off from my duties as Minister of Fashion), but it shouldn’t require much effort on anyone’s part. North Korea starts acting all grumpy, I suspect all it will take to shut ‘em up is a little T&A and some kitchen wizardry. In return, all Moi’s Weapons get a lifetime’s supply of Louboutins and revolving credit at Agent Provacateur.
Moi’s Muscle: Da Pirate. She tough. She eats mileage like some people eat bon-bons. And she looks good while doing it, which is über importante in Moi’s administration. Not only will she serve as tough and stylish personal protection por Moi, she’ll whip the rest of this flabby-assed country into shape, too. You know how Mao had all the Chinese under this thumb wake up with mandatory Tai Chi? Well, here’s a hint: buy running shoes. And quit yer cryin’. In exchange, Moi’s gub’ment will pay for a lifetime of triathlon entry fees for her, her family, and sixty five of her closest friends.
Moi's Karl Rove/Official State Photographer/Musical Arranger: I Am Not. He is in charge of always, always, always making sure each and every one of us gals looks gorgemous in all photos and of ensuring that proper background music accompanies us wherever we go. Disco is good. So is Iggy Pop. And he can have all the female interns he needs to assist him with his tasks. In exchange, he gets, well, access to female interns.
Moi's Second Photographer in Charge: Meghan. The only reason you're not first is that you work hard enough as it is, and dang, girlfriend, with two rock stars to raise, I figure you don't need the stress. So just feel free to wander the White House grounds at your leisure and take photos of whatever you want and nap in between. Husband and children in tow, of course. 'cept hubby will have to leave the Crocs at home.
Moi's Ambassadorships: I don’t really want a cabinet, per se. I mean, yawn, that’s, like, waaaaay too much trouble. So I’m just gonna send a bunch of people out into the universe and let ‘em do their thing, as follows:
Da Troll: Ambassador to both Denmark (so he can score good beer for us, hot chicks for himself) and Russia (so he can make for damn sure the commies never rear their poorly dressed heads ever again). Troll is also Minister of All Things Food and Wine-y, which means he most likely gets to confer with the Weapons on occasion.
She: Ambassador to Iceland. Where she will spend her days learning the fine art of Viking toughness, eating smoked fish, drinking bathtub vodka, and creating unique performance art pieces with Björk. Plus, Trout will get to run around free as a big brown dog should because Iceland’s an island and what’s Trout gonna do, swim back to Georgia?
Anonymous Boxer: Ambassador to Switzerland. You know, I’ve never quite trusted Switzerland and if there’s anyone who can keep tabs on this tricky lil’ country, it’s AB. All lovely and luminous and even-tempered on the one hand, possessed of a dangerous-ass left hook on the other. Plus, she's got all them Chihuahuas. Sting like a bee, girlfriend. And bring back chocolate and blingy timepieces.
Aunty: Ambassador to the U.N. That’ll learn those pansy asses. All I’m saying is, they have NO idea just how effective a weapon a Bottega Veneta bag, backed up with a Blahnik stiletto heel and a Southern will, can be against Pakistani stupidity.
Wicked Thistle and Doris Rose: Ambassadors to Belize. I was gonna have them be Moi’s administration’s official scribes, but I know, just know, they’ll put off the assignment to the very last minute and then they’ll panic and nothing at all will get written. Besides, they’re most excellent at conveying a certain kind of Gallic-shrugged, cigarette-butt-flipped nonchalance that this administration needs in times of crisis. In other words: “Oh, Belgium is threatening to leave the E.U. and so no chocolates for Christmas ? Meh . . . let ‘em eat Hershey’s.”
NYD: Ambassador to Japan. Because he already lives there and can therefore provide Moi’s administration with the bestest sushi evah.
Czar: Ambassador to South of France: (Note I write South. The ONLY part of France Moi tolerates.) Because it just seems to me you spend most of your life copy editing what he's copy-edited (I mean, airline schedules, that's hardcore), you deserve to spend the rest of your life on a beach eating fois gras.
Oops, almost forgot the most important post of all. I need someone in charge of all things girly-girl (day spas, beauty salons, luncheon spots, shopping sprees) so that when we're done with all this guverning, we can relax and pig out on champagne and sushi and candy. While getting our nails done. I think Ms Thursday Next, no stranger to self-pampering, would most likely be Our Gal Friday for that.
So that should do it. If I left anyone out, let me know what you want to do and I’m sure I can wiggle you in somewhere. The rest of you all, you can just relax and enjoy the fruits of our labors.
Oh, and one last thing. You may have asked yourself: “What about your beloved S.B.? What’s he gonna do?”
You kidding me?
Man’s been waiting fifty gazillion years for me to finally snag the presidency so he can retire and spend the rest of his days hitting golf balls on the White House lawn in preparation for his eventual status as PGA star. Troll, I’m going to rely on your to send your cousin on over to assist in the task. In fact, I’m going to rely on the only three dudes in Moi’s administration to make sure S.B. is entertained at all times. Otherwise, he’ll start in with the home improvement projects and I'll get grumpy. If you have to use beer and female interns to get the job done, well, la, la, la, la, la, just make sure I don’t hear about it.
