I’m officially announcing my candidacy for public office. I know, I know. I was hoping someone else would step up, too. But alas, there seems to be no Obi-Wan to our Princess Leia.
So instead of a retired Jedi, you are getting a 51-year-old man whose constitution won’t allow him to walk past a public bathroom without thinking, “I should probably go, just in case.”
We’ve even finalized our campaign slogan. We’re just having trouble fitting it on a yard sign.
If you’re anything like me, you see plenty to worry about. Democracy. Corruption. Whether anybody involved in running our country has ever read a book that didn’t include scratch-and-sniff pop-ups.
Meanwhile, a super nice man in a huge green truck comes to my house every week and takes away my garbage. For free! Which is how I describe things I’ve already paid for through taxes.
I gather the things I no longer want in my home - chicken remnants, coffee grounds, whatever vegan shit my daughter and I refuse to eat - and put them in a container. Then I move that container to the end of the driveway.
A truck arrives.
The garbage leaves.
No questions asked. No judgment. No need to explain why we bought another bag of spinach when the previous six bags ended their lives this way, too.
They just take it. The container even has wheels. My contribution to the entire operation has been reduced to walking alongside my own garbage. And even then, sometimes I still consider it a pain in my ass to walk the bin 50 feet to the curb.
This is the kind of leadership you can expect from me.
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Then there’s the hot water.
I walk into a room in my house, turn a handle, and water comes out. Already heated. For me to stand under. Ostensibly for as long as I’d like. I know exactly how hot it is because the digital temperature control module has more computing power than the Apollo program.
99 degrees and I’m cold. 105 and I feel like I’m being heated by water from a solar flare.
But I’m willing to compromise. As long as that compromise comes between 101 and 103 degrees Fahrenheit. I believe this makes me uniquely qualified to represent the American people.
When it comes to my economic platform, I plan to run on Canadian whisky. I realize this raises questions. Bear with me.
I love Crown Royal Canadian Whisky. I also like Costco’s Kirkland Canadian Whisky. Which is really good and costs significantly less. Most nights, I pour myself a glass of one or the other.
When I choose Kirkland, I feel good because I’m saving money. When I choose Crown, I feel good because I’ve worked hard and I deserve it. Either way, I end up with whisky and a favorable assessment of my character.
Crown really ought to be using that in its advertising. Maybe they need a brand ambassador if this public service bullshit doesn’t pay off. I heard Hennessy just let their guy go.
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Which brings me to the most significant development of this campaign. The hot dogs at Kwik Trip. I used to love Kwik Trip roller dogs. There was something reassuring about seeing them there, turning slowly, attending to their business. Not getting burned, just ready at a moment’s notice. The Minuteman Militia of suburban sprawl.
Then this summer the rollers disappeared. I was pissed. Why does everything good always have to go away?
But the dogs weren’t removed permanently. Just re-homed. Like these two lovable dipshits:
The replacement dogs were already in their buns, wrapped in aluminum foil, sitting in the hot food case. Eventually I tried one. Because Kwik Trip apparently knows what I want better than I do.
Steve Jobs walked so that Kwik Trip could run.
I owe the American people an apology: the new dog was better.
The one problem with the roller dogs had been the buns. Sometimes they were stiff. You’d open one and it would break at the crack, leaving you with two separate pieces of bread and an infrastructure problem.
You could still eat it. But you had to manage it. I don’t want to manage lunch people. I have jobs1. Inside the foil, though, the bun gets steamed. It gets softened. No cracks. The entire thing functions as intended.
Something I already loved had been improved upon, and my initial response had been anger. I had formed a strong opinion about the new hot dogs before actually eating a new hot dog.
Please keep that in mind when questioning whether I possess the instincts necessary for public office. I adjusted. I examined the evidence. I ate additional evidence to make sure.
I now fully support the new system. I’m even willing to acknowledge that the people responsible may have known something I didn’t.
My campaign advisers have asked me to stop saying that.
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There are serious things that need fixing. Real human beings - neighbors even - who need help. Immediate help.
There are also people who need to be held accountable. But I’d like to enjoy some portion of the life I’m so worried about. Maybe even acknowledge the people who keep showing up to make it work. The people driving the trucks. Keeping the water running. Standing behind the counter while I conduct my independent assessment of their ultra-processed phallic-shaped meat.
I appreciate them. And the more I think about all this, the less certain I am about the first part of my slogan.
We may need new signs.
I’m Henny Hiemenz, and I approve this message.
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P.S. If this made you laugh, forward it to a friend who could use one. My campaign is relying heavily on word of mouth because we blew the entire budget on the yard sign.
Not really, but still.
As soon as I saw the Denzel pic, I nodded and said "My man" 😂😂