I cannot be president of the United States. I checked with the internet to make sure. For one thing, I am not tall enough (too short, for those of you from my plain-speaking town of East Helena, Montana). I will spare you (me, for those of you that are not me) the details on that, other than to say, it’s a perception thing.
Another thing that will destroy my chances for president is reporters. They would ask me questions. I would give them Mitch answers. Mitch answers are the first thing that come to mind. If, for instance, reporter X asked, “What do you most admire about women?” I would answer: “Their butt.” And then I would need to walk all over myself trying to explain that I meant to say I admire how women are consensus builders and women usually won’t punch you in the face. And…well…never mind!
I dig holes.
That’s what I do.
I am not convinced that I can be trusted with the nuclear arms button, either—especially if they have it located anywhere near a light switch or a garage door button. I am always flipping the wrong switch when I am confronted with two or more of them. The garage door buttons? Forget about it!
There are plenty more reasons why I cannot be president, including the fact I don’t wear underwear. I’m sure that will matter to someone. I also display poor judgment by living with 40 pounds of housecat.
I think that’s a workable deal.