Well, it’s decided. I’m going to run for elected office. I’m not sure which office yet, but it’s going to be national and it’s going to be awesome.
Whether I’ll be a representative for some subsection of Maine or a senator for some broader slice of it is irrelevant. You, my constituents, will only care whether I consistently feature an American flag pin on my lapel, and I will only care whether I will (a) be re-elected and (b) someday become president or at least one of the cool Cabinet members.
I suppose I would also accept a top-flight lobbyist position, but I’ll need a cause I can argue strenuously against while in office so that I can argue vociferously in support of that very same cause as a lobbyist. Sometimes, you need a crystal ball to tell you how flagrantly inconsistent you’ll become; right now, I’m not confident that there will be an issue I can passionately take up from two diametrically opposed sides. A girl can dream, though.
In any event, these are considerations for my second day in office. First, I need to convince you, the voters, that I am someone you can depend on. Someone you can be sure will tell you all the things you want to hear and then do just north of nothing to get those things accomplished.
If I’ve learned anything from my fastidious observation of Washington, D.C., politics for the past few years, it is this: I am ready to be your representative. Or senator. Either way, I’m your gal.
1 — I love the sound of my own voice. I seriously love it. Have you ever heard yourself on an answering machine or video recording and thought, “ugh, I sound like that?!?” Too bad for you. I’ve never experienced that sort of surprise or disappointment in my life. When I hear the first nasally syllables heralding a sentence or monologue of mine, I’m like, “hey, can someone turn up the volume?!” I will have no problem delivering entire paragraphs of nonsense, or speeches that evidence nothing more than my literacy.
2 — I know that whoever disagrees with me is an idiot. It’s not an accident I was able to graduate from college and law school, then practice as a lawyer, then land a column in this newspaper. I’m a genius. Therefore, when someone says something that does not overlap with my perspective, he or she is obviously a Socialist bent on destroying America, and I will have no problem shouting that warning from the rooftops. (Bonus: I once was Chicken Little for Halloween, and I still have the costume.)
3 — God loves me better than everyone else. It’s true. He told me. He also told me I’m a genius, so there’s no disputing No. 2 above. When I speak or act or think, it’s with God’s backing. So step off. This will serve me particularly well when I get placed on committees handling international relations, education, and climate change.
4 — I understand that politics is a game of chess. The goal is to queen me. The electorate is a giant pawn. My job is to use the electorate (pawn) in whatever way allows me to win (become queen). This works out well for everyone, except for the pawn. But who cares about a pawn, am I right?
5 — I am guided by the following truths, which I hold to be self-evident: that all campaign donors are not created equal, that the rights endowed by the Constitution are unalienable if I say they are, and that women shouldn’t get too far ahead of themselves.
6 — On that note, I wouldn’t make a decision without the advice and consent of my priest, husband, and a senator from Texas, even if you put a gun to my head. Which you should totally be able to do. Put a gun to my head, I mean. Constitution says so.
In short, I’m ready to end the gridlock in Washington by contributing to it. I want to stop politics as usual by playing politics as usual. You should elect me because I’m not a product of Washington, and I can’t wait to become one.