Presidential Race

Do you feel like I do?  Do you wish the race for president would never end?  Ooohh, the very idea of a fully-blustered presidential campaign sets my pulse to racing.  All those scabrous lies, heinous rumors, and statistical confabulations lobbed up against charges, counter charges and past indiscretions.  I tell you, I get all goose pimply at the thought of it all.

But do you ever wish that there was a better way to choose our leaders than by wading through the offal of political ads, unctuous speeches and gotcha debates?  I never feel like I’m getting the unfiltered candidate – except for the satanic Newt, the tail-regenerator who seems Dr. Seuss-born, and soon to be played by Jim Carey.

Actually, we see best what the process has become with Good Neighbor Mitt, a candidate whose every utterance has campaign staff inspection slips falling out of each syllable.   Seems the only candidate this cycle who was unafraid to put it to us straight was Grandpa Ron (Paul) who understood that such discourse carries the unfortunate penalty of never actually achieving the office being sought.

What we need instead of this year’s-worth of mucking about is a fail-safe way to make the right choice.  And here is the premise:  Americans love athletic types in the White House.  I say, find the best athlete, and we’ll find the best president.  If his body is coordinated, his policies just might be, too.

Just look at history.  But it has to be recent history, because pre-World War II the nation was still mostly rural.  So the whole idea of leisure activity from the President would have looked unseemly outside an occasional duck or quail shoot.  Even so, the press wasn’t as intrusive back then.  So who really knew what happened way back?  Lincoln could have been a bowler, for all we know, and Mary Todd his pin setter.  Maybe she took a few Brunswicks to the head; could have explained a lot. Continue reading