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Top 11 reasons being POTUS is so darn cool

obama

As it appears we’re smack dab in the middle of the 2016 presidential campaign announcement season, this might be the perfect time to ask the question on every American’s lips: what kind of twisted psychopath chooses to do this? Who are these people that are so all fired up to enter this soul- sucking fray just to sit in an Office that is Oval? Masochists? Sadists? Sadomasochists? Masosadochists? Folks who didn’t pay attention during any previous election?

As we ravenous hounds of the media descend like quadrennial locusts on the plucky pioneers making their early intentions known, the public is entitled to know what kind of flippo- unit willingly volunteers to sell their soul and ditch their family for the chance to become a human sound byte and eat crap food for 18 months. Who in their right mind would desire to be President? Aye, there’s the rub. The right mind part. Reinforcing a belief that anybody who wants to be president- shouldn’t be.
 
Can’t be the power. Buffeted by the winds of domestic, foreign and intergalactic fate, a president is as effective as a weatherman in an outhouse hit by a tornado. Running for POTUS is an exercise in doomed futility. Like applying for the job of lion tamer knowing they’re going to take away your clothes, whip and chair, paint dashes around your neck, and hang a sign that says, “bite here.”
 
It’s got to be the perks. In order to compensate for all this dismal malarkey, the fringe benefits must be pretty darn sweet. After intensive investigation, we here at Durstco have discovered the Top Eleven Reasons Why Being President is So Darn Cool. Why 11? Because it’s 10% funnier than 10, that’s why.
 
11. Not only are your driving days over, but you’ll never sweat a red light again. Don’t want to wear a seat belt? Don’t.

10. A cool $400,000 a year salary. About the same as a mid- level porn producer. Although, if Carly Fiorina or Hillary Clinton wins, we only have to pay them 77%, or $308,000.

9. From out of nowhere, mothers will hand you their babies. To do with what you will.

8. Your own 747. With in- flight refueling connections, ballistic missiles, evasive action capabilities and 19 televisions.

7. Everywhere you go, someone close will be carrying a football.

6. People pay attention to what you say. Your every syllable will be raked over like a beach near the crash site of a jet carrying the world’s largest shipment of blue diamonds.

5. Got a minor phobia about being late? Nothing will ever start without you again.

4. You want lobster thermidor at 3 am? You can have lobster thermidor at 3am.

3. Guaranteed to age into a stylish head of distinguished grey hair. Every president gets it. Obama looks like a snow- capped mountain pass. Thank God John McCain didn’t win in 2008. The guy started out a sarcophagus. By the end of his first term, he would have looked like a rubber Yoda hand- puppet shriveled in the Arizona summer sun.

2. Extremely attentive health care. You don’t just have a doctor on call. He’s in the bullet- proof car behind you.

1. Your post presidential speaking fee just crossed into 7 figures.
 
TAB A INTO SLOT B.
 
For many, it was an apocryphal moment. One which will be remembered for a lifetime. Exactly where we were and what we were doing when Bruce Jenner shocked the world by going on television to announce that he is … a Republican. And oh yeah, the transgender thing was sort of a big deal too.
 
A Republican. Can’t wait until Bruce tries to use the bathroom at the GOP National Convention next year and encounters a series of shoulders so cold, the resulting steam coming out of his ears freezes and tinkles onto the tile like glass icicles. Because he has made a lifestyle choice that most members of his chosen party liken to some sort of religious gender treason.
 
Yet, the outrage over the decision to transition is not as widespread as it would have been just a few years ago. Proof that the future is a tsunami of change sweeping away yesterday’s static perceptions of community, relationships, sexuality and even granite kitchen countertop splash backs.
 
First it was the Gay Pride Parade. Then the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Parade. Won’t be long before Disney pays big bucks to sponsor the AWHPWTWTAISB Parade: Anybody Who Has Problems With the Whole Tab A Into Slot B Parade. And that, my friends, is a parade we can all walk in.
 
Facebook now offers 51 categories under the heading of “gender choice” and it could easily be 51,000, but that would mean filling out forms would become our national pastime. 7.1 billion may be the world’s population but the real number of sexual preferences is probably north of 9 billion, because face it, some of us are little piggies and would demand more than one.
 
Sex is complicated like a tangled spaghetti fuse, with desire and romance all intertwined. Or not. And it doesn’t matter if you think it’s trite or cliché, it is true- each and every one of us is a PRECIOUS FRICKIN SNOWFLAKE. Your needs are yours alone. Doesn’t matter if you identify as FTM or MTF or GBH or LSMFT or WYSIWYG or MGM. Ars Gratia Artis.
 
To be accurate, secondary filters need to separate prudes from exhibitionists and the squeamish and the gross and tentatives and precisionists and leapers and crawlers and the noisy and the mute. And don’t forget the short, taut and distracted. And the plush who require air- conditioning to keep from making their own gravy.
 
Individual appeal has as much to do with chromosomes as ballet slippers have to do with transmission repair. Nobody can explain attraction. Although throughout history, rich and good- looking has never hurt. More evolved folks keep a constant prowl for a glimmer of generosity. A soupcon of compassion. And whether the prospective mate sufficiently hates the Dodgers.
 
No more can we assume that sex and gender and physical sexual characteristics are the same thing. Once you’ve seen the rainbow, you can never go back to black and white. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dot. Tomorrow is going to be broadcast in a million colors. A lot of them nicely puce.
 
But for those of you desperately seeking labels, here’s a goodie. If the object of your affection picks you up in a car, and reaches over to unlock the passenger door before you try the handle, slap a sticker on their forehead that says…”Certified Keeper.”


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