This Country Wants Change, and Here’s What I Have in Mind
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Dear Mr. Obama,

Now that you have been named President-elect of this here United States of God Bless America, I think it’s time that you and I sat down to discuss your image, as well as how we can make this country a better place in which to live.

You made it to the highest office in the land by your eloquent speeches and thorough understanding of the issues, but fancy words and fancy clothes does not a good leader make. Being a good leader hinges on just one thing—what kind of dog you’re going to bring to the White House.

If you bring a little yippy-snippy dog to Washington that acts like it prefers espresso instead of puppy chow, you may be viewed as being jittery, jumpy, edgy, and a whole lot of others words that mean exactly the same thing. On the contrary, if you bring a vicious, man-eating dog that scares the snot out of your Secret Service detachment, you’ll be seen as overcompensating for a lack of personal Alpha-Male qualities, with your thumb on the button, ready to nuke any country that says as much.

Nope, what you need is a hound dog—a good-for-nothing, laid back, stretching-out-on-the-front-porch hound dog that only shows signs of life when supper is served and the tax man knocks on the door. Yessiree! An honest to goodness hound dog would give you the air of someone who is so confident in himself, he doesn’t even need a dog.

(Whatever you do, don’t bring a cat to the White House. Nobody wants a calico coughing up hairballs on Lincoln’s bed.)

Next, you need to get rid of the limo and buy yourself a good ole Texas truck. It doesn’t matter what kind of truck, but it’s got to have some scrapes and dings to show you’re not scared of a little hard work. Nobody likes a president with clean fingernails. What we want is a leader in a half-ton, with maybe a deer rifle hanging in the back window.

I know your first 100 days in office will be a roller-coaster ride of setting the tone for the rest of your presidency, but I think you should really give some thought to making it illegal for singers to butcher our national anthem at major events. And for those who choose to break the law claiming the right of “artistic expression”—those people should be arrested as enemy combatants, thrown into a secret prison, and made to listen to Pierce Brosnan sing ABBA songs for the rest of their natural life.

I speak for all Americans when I say we’re tired of hearing those so-called “artists” wobbling around on every note of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” bellowing like an African wildebeest stuck in a mud pile, waiting to be eaten by a pack of wild jackals. No sir! Our national anthem needs to be sung by a combat veteran with a beautiful tenor voice, who gets the mission done without getting emotional and then finishes just as a squadron of fighter jets flies overhead.

Little kids at fall festivals can sing the national anthem like they want because at least they’re trying. We’ll even forgive the first chair trumpet player for cracking the high note at the Friday football game. But if we’re going to pay $75 a ticket to see a NASCAR race, we want to hear something that will send tingles up and down our spines and make us ashamed that we didn’t pay more.

And, finally, let me say this about Daylight Saving Time—we need to scrap it, kill it, and bury it under a rock. What’s the use of one more hour of sleep if we spend that hour trying to figure out how to reset our microwaves? And do you know how dangerous it is to try and reset that little clock on our car radio—the one that requires us to poke an obscenely small button with a ball point pen while we’re driving 70 mph down the highway because we forgot to do it while we were parked?

So, concerning Daylight Saving Time, I say let’s split the difference by moving our clocks 30 minutes ahead and call it Even Steven.

And those, Mr. Obama, are just some of the things you and I need to accomplish during your administration. If you have any questions, have your people call my people, and if I’m available, maybe we can do lunch.

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