Kings are more fun than presidents

I'm a big fan of democracy, of the whole electoral process. This despite candidate yard signs (litter), candidate promises (lies), and candidate commercials (bull droppings). Watching the complex, clumsy tap dance that precedes any American election is like watching monkeys at the zoo: Despite being a step or two further down the evolutionary ladder than we are, politicians sometimes seem so … human.

It’s eerie.

But it’s fun to watch them scramble back and forth; trying desperately to remember exactly what it is they’re supposed to feel strongly about at any given whistle stop without constantly checking the teleprompter. The whole thing has, on more than one occasion, been compared to a circus, and for good reason. You’ve got clowns, freaks, ringmasters, tightrope walkers … it’s entertainment, folks!

Then comes November, and all the monkeys pack up and head back to (Lansing, Washington, the zoo, wherever) until next time. Back in the heartland, we’re left with nothing but reality television and Karaoke bars to get us through another four years.

This is obviously a problem, but a problem I may have a solution to. I have to give a lot of the credit for coming up with this solution to the British.

In England, see, they have—instead of a president—a king. Or a queen, depending on who’s died recently. Most folks already are aware of this fact, but I’ll go ahead and recap the whole structure of the British government as I understand it (not at all) anyway: If you’re the firstborn son or daughter of the king, you’re next in line for the throne when the old man kicks the bucket. If you marry a king, then you’re a queen. Or maybe you’re not—like I said, I barely understand our government, let alone the Brits.

Your kids get to be princes and princesses and your friends get to be dukes and archdukes, doo-bees and don’t-bees, or something like that. Doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that once they issue you your crown, scepter and ermine robes, that’s it—you’ve got the job for as long as you want it. Since you’re king, you don’t have to worry much about what people think of you. If there’s food on the tables of the peasants, chances are they’re not going to storm the castle and run you through with a broadsword.

This, as any American politician could no doubt tell you, is very liberating. Instead of pretending to give a flying fig what “the people” think, you can instead worry about what you think, about what you want out of life. You’re still under the media microscope, but who cares? There’s no election to worry about, so let ‘em eat cake. (Point of interest: Even as royalty, you won’t want to say that “cake” thing out loud. It didn’t work out well for the last queen who did.)

The point is, you’re free to act like a fool, if that’s what tickles your fancy. Date inappropriate women. Drive fast cars on slow roads. Skinny dip off the coast of Belize.

Meanwhile, your antics will give the folks back home something to talk about. Mostly, they’ll be saying things like, “Bloody royals!” and whatnot, but at least they’ll be entertained.

So that’s my plan. Let’s ditch the president and elect a king. Or appoint one. Doesn’t really matter.

As to who gets this cushy job, all I can say is, well … it was my idea.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.