Fred Throws Sombrero in Ring

The Only Thing We Have to be A-Fred of is Fred Hisself

I see that I shall have to take over the helm of the country to save it from the impending collapse. It has come to this. I have always said that I would undertake the presidency onl under an assumed name—who would want that on his resumè?—but noblesse oblges. What could be nobler than this column?

You may say, “But Fred, how can you be so bloody arrogant as to think you can run the country?” To which I reply, “We know that the incumbents cannot. I may be able to. In any event, I couldn’t be worse: I have not that talent. Which do you prefer, assured disaster or a sporting chance?”

Apparently the key to a successful campaign is a bumper sticker of supernal stupidity and irrelevance. I can play that game. How about “A Fred in Every Pot.” Or Tippecanoe and Frederick Too.” Or “Better Fred than Dead.” Or "Fred...Ahhhh." Or, most pertinently, ”Well, Have You Got a Better Idea?”

It is my understanding that as a candidate, I need a platform. I think this means a pack of rhythmically mendacious platitudes that would put a crank freak to sleep.  I shall try to do better. The following appear to me serviceable:

“Defense” policy: We don’t have one. The last time the military defended the United States was 1945—the United States, remember,  being that place between Canada and Mexico, a region that does not include (recent graduates, check your atlas) Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia, Albania, Yugoslavia, Panama, Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Somalia, Iran, Nigeria, or Yemen.

Do not misunderstand me. I am as patriotic as the next guy, and consequently happy to kill remote strangers for no reason, and their wives, children, dogs, and flcoks. Unfortunately, we can no longer afford it. Do you know what bombs cost these days? Thus we must either find a cheaper means of terminating Afghan children, perhaps by poisoning, or else, on purely economic grounds, we must restrain the Pentagon’s appetites.

Therefore, under my administration all military officers will be required to wear pink tutus, toe shoes, and brassieres with expandable boob compartments. This will discourage history majors in arrested development from becoming  lieutenants and strutting around like Genghis Kahn simulacra. An army of ballerinas will be much less troublesome.

With each promotion officers will get larger inserts of high-density silicone, so that they get back trouble and retire. David Petraeus will be instantly issued an udder.
Is this not genius?

Further, all pilots of military helicopters will be required to go into combat with their children strapped to the skids. This will calm martial enthusiasm. (I was going to use the pilots’ wives, but on reflection realized that this might lead to an insatiable thirst for war.)

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