I am going to be busy all day. I know that because I just met with my Oval
Office secretary, who’s filled me in about the long day ahead. I then have the Director of National Intelligence
drop off my Daily Brief, which on this particular day is packed full of Top Secrets. No surprise there. I have the sudden urge to pee, so I head to
the bathroom. Hey, we’re all human here in the White House. After I’ve relieved myself my ex-wife is
on the phone berating me for something I’d done a decade ago, and then the White House
Executive Chef calls me to tell me the veal shanks are off the menu for dinner because
he didn’t like the look of the cuts. How can it be that the President can’t get
the best veal! I’ve got a looming natural disaster in Pittsburg,
and a bunch of tech geeks and an Asian Prime Minister to meet in the afternoon… Meanwhile, helicopters are flying over the
White House as a precaution for a security threat that’s been hanging around a little
too long. Welcome to my kind of life. As you’ll see, it’s pretty hectic being
what some people still call the leader of the free world. The reason for the helicopters is because
I have a lot of things going on today and have to move around. I barely have time to eat the sausages that
I had the chef fry-up for me, when I am told it’s time to go. I notice some flowers in the office are drooping
and so on my way out tell the white house maid to make sure to water them. I’d sooner just hop on the helicopter from
the South Lawn, but my advisors tell me it’s a good time to be seen travelling around in
the presidential car. That security threat isn’t high, but still,
the motorcade I’m told has been bolstered today. That’s the thing most of you don’t realize;
it’s hard on a man knowing there are lots of people that want him dead, inside his own
country, and outside. Sure, YOU have your known enemies, but when
you’re the head of a country it’s not like someone is going to tell you they’re
going to kill you. It just doesn’t happen that way. My enemies are everywhere and everyday I pray
it won’t be my last. It’s not like in the real world where you
know who your enemies are. You don’t get to fight or argue... if they
get you it comes out of nowhere, and that is a constant stress on me and my family. You should see my blood pressure. I was a regular 140/90 man before I took this
job, and now I’m lucky if I get a 170/100. You know what that’s called? HYPERTENSION! My personal physician says I’m in the high
range of hypertension. You know what that can lead to? Heart failure, stroke, dementia, the loss
of my eyesight. I can tell you, this job would not be easy
for a blind man. As for dementia, well, it seemed to work for
some in the past. That’s a joke by the way...Presidents can
joke guys. We get in the car and the motorcade takes
off. It’s funny. I know I’m safe and all, but I always look
through the back windows to see if we’re being trailed. We’ve got a rally to attend at a University. Intelligence reports state that I have a lot
of support there, but after reading my social media feeds lately, I don’t need intelligence
to inform me I have a lot of haters there, too. You know what some journalist had the audacity
to call me yesterday? His exact words were “a war-mongering corporate
shill dressed in sheep’s clothing.” I’m not going to get into it with you, but
I can tell you that I have a job to do and you just can’t win at times. It doesn’t matter what you do, the insults
just keep flooding in. It’s almost as bad as the youtube comments
section. What that guy wrote was opinion dressed as
journalism. Opinionism, that’s what most of them do
these days. “You can win all the people some of the
time and some of the people all the time, but you cannot win all the people all the
time.” You heard that first here, from your dear
Mr. President. I’m not a warmonger and I’ve been applauded
for my work on foreign policy. I’m certainly not a corporate shill, it
just looks that way at times. Ok, not everything trickles down, but a drop
is better than a drought. Sometimes I know for sure I’ve created a
policy that is for the greater good of the country, but you know what, even if its successful
the media will just look for the next problem. Bad news sells, if it bleeds it leads, and
the public wants blood on the front page...often my blood. In the few months I’ve been in power I’ve
already implemented some social policies to benefit the underdogs. That’s been mostly ignored by the press. But you know something? The President is always an underdog. Like I said, we can’t win. It’s like this: The job means you’re a
target, you sell newspapers, and each day you get lilliputian spears fired at you from
one side for your failures, while the other side is busy mending yesterday’s wounds.This
never stops. I’m a moving target, a fairground attraction,
a fish in a great big barrel that’s called the USA. You know what my job feels like? It feels like being inside one of those whack-a-mole
machines and it’s my head their whacking. My ex-wife is on the phone again? “You do remember it’s your first child’s
birthday in a week,” she says snarkily? How could I forget I tell her, but I won’t
be able to make the party. I tell her I’ll send some guys round with
a gift. She hangs up without responding. Not a second later and my present wife, The
First Lady, calls me. Did I take my beta-blockers this morning,
she asks. I tell her I indeed did. She’s looking after my heart, and I’m
trying to look after a nation. I couldn’t do it without her support to
be honest. She tells me to watch my weight, while I’m
reading a document about an exonerated man from death row. The whole world is criticising our justice
system, and I’m the man that should fix it. Talk about juggling crises. She keeps on talking as I’m watching the
people stare at the motorcade passing by. Someone waves, another person shows me the
middle finger. That’s the presidency in a nutshell. My wife wants to change the color scheme in
the White House bedroom, and why did she find Alprazolam hidden in the bathroom cabinet? Am I stressed? Of course I’m stressed! Look at me. I’m eight months into the job and already
my face is shriveling up like that Red Woman in Game of Thrones when she takes off her
necklace. I’m ageing faster than any other human being. I’m on dog years right now. What’s that…four years in the White House
means you serve 28 years. I’ll probably leave that place on a walking
frame looking like my wife’s great uncle. I just got word that the rally has been canceled. That’s a relief. Students can be touchy, I prefer the old folks,
their blood doesn’t run so hot. Ok, turn around, we’re going back. Now I’ve got time for a bite to eat, but
I have to answer about 50 phone calls as I’m trying to get down a corned beef and pastrami
sandwich. 49 of those calls each take a minute off my
life. That’s what a phone call is for me, a kind
of cigarette health hazard. The only non-stressful call...the roofing
is finally finished on my holiday home. I’ve got those smarmy tech executives coming
around in about 43 minutes to talk about automation and security. I’m not exactly as well versed in tech as
those Silicon Valley guys, so I’ve got minutes to read the details of the meeting and I’m
going to get a short brief beforehand from one of my advisors. That’s another thing, you know, we don’t
just talk about war and wages and environmental matters. We have to know a lot about everything. Sure, I’m surrounded by able men and women,
but if I make one comment that makes me sound uneducated or naive I’ll be ripped to pieces
in the media. The tech guys are friendly enough, but billions
in the bank to be honest has made them a little too over-confident for my liking. Talking with them you sometimes get the feeling
they think they are in charge. My $400,000 a year probably seems like chump
change to them, but I could soon make a dent in their fortunes. “Fully-autonomous flying vehicles hovering
over the streets of the USA in 2035” I’m told … “There are no ‘bad actors’
exploiting our systems,” they say...Yeah right…and I’ve got aliens hiding in the
closet. The press is allowed in at the end of the
meeting and we tell them only a few of the things we’ve actually said. The meeting was successful, that’s all they
need to know. Headline in tomorrow’s newspapers: “White
House Gives Green Light for Self-Driving Flying Vehicle testing.” God, the media is so predictable. I could write tomorrow’s headlines myself…then
again, I am the President. After the meeting is lunchtime, spaghetti
and meatballs and tiramisu for dessert. The tomato sauce isn’t right again and I
tell my Chief of Staff to have a quiet word with the chef. I should fire the guy...can I fire the guy...I
wonder if i should fire the guy...the veal, then the sauce...ah, I’ve got more important
things to think about. My ex-wife calls again. “What’s it this time,” I ask, “I’m
really busy today. You do know I’m the President now.” Can she have a security detail to take the
kids to McDonalds? “Do you know how much that costs?” I tell her. It can’t be done, but my advisor tells me
she should use the Drive-Through. She hangs up again. Next are the handshakes. Yep, that’s all I call it, the handshakes. That’s all it is. Sometimes it makes me feel like a performing
monkey. Here’s my hand, shake it, see, I’m just
like you. People who I don’t know come to the White
House and I smile like a Cheshire cat and thank them for whatever they’ve done. It doesn’t matter what kind of mood I’m
in, I have to look like a man without a care in the world. A serious man of course, but a man who holds
the weight of the world in his hands like a professional basketball player spins a ball
on his finger. Presidents are not allowed to show overt happiness,
we don’t get giddy….we can’t show sorrow or sadness unless the sorrow or sadness is
a political thing. We are unable to openly express our feelings
about our relationships, we don’t discuss our inner doubts, our reservations about what
we do. We cannot ponder the futility of existence,
our words are scripted, or at least self-censored. We have to be almost robotic, act like an
automaton, and yet at the same time we have to be more than human. We are men pretending to be superhuman. This, my friends, is not always easy. You know why? I do get depressed, I do have doubts, I have
remorse and I sometimes cry, like a baby, alone, where no one can see. I have days I ate the wrong food and during
a speech and I feel as though I’m gonna drop a load in my pants live on TV in front
of millions of viewers. I’m normal! But the President doesn’t run off to the
bathroom and let loose a waste supernova. I’ve even had to hold in my farts. Presidents apparently are above letting one
go. I know you won’t pity me, but trying to
be abnormal all day is tiresome. We live two lives, and seldom can those two
lives integrate. A fine example of this fact is I’ve just
had a raging argument with my wife. She wants to spice-up the bedroom with raunchy
vermillion drapes and wine-colored wall paint. I just don’t understand this at all. Red hues are just not presidential. Sure, I probably need to liven things up in
the bedroom, but since I took this job I’ve kinda lost interest. I tell her we’ll stick with the antique
silver drapes and cosmic latte beige painted walls for now. “No,” she demands, “You might be the
leader of the most powerful nation on Earth but that doesn’t give you the right to think
you’re an interior designer.” “I’ve said what I have to say,” I tell
her. “This house is a democracy and right now
it’s 1-1, stalemate, so things will just have to stay the way they are. That’s how things work in this country.” Shaking her head in disgust she picks up the
book I’m reading, “How to Win Friends and Influence People.” She looks me right in the eye and says, “And
you say your progressive, a man of real change…I’VE SEEN MORE PROGRESSION IN A TWO-FOOTED TORTOISE!”
she shouts. “You’re an idiot, and a selfish husband,
too!” “I’ve gotta go,” I tell her. As soon as I open that bedroom door I know
she has to be quiet and smile, because a President and his First Lady can never be seen to be
not getting along. So, imagine just being in that heated domestic
situation and then segueing into what happens next. I’ve just been informed that the leader
of Quasiland is here and it’s time to entertain him for a bit. We shake hands first and a few photos are
taken. Before we get down to business I tell him
I’ll take him for a tour around the White House gardens. His broken English is a bit hard to understand,
but the man at least tries. This is a show more than anything else. I’ve been briefed of course about what’s
going down in Quasiland and that the word democracy is kinda flexible there, but the
good news is the PM is looking to buy some very expensive fighter jets. This is how it goes. You talk about the humanitarian stuff, and
then you get down to business. “Diplomacy”, it’s my middle name. I wave goodbye to the PM and at last I can
have some time to myself, well, with the family. The Kids are back from school, which is a
relief, because I won’t have to talk about spicing-up the bedroom. It’s not easy bringing up kids in the White
House. It’s not like they can just hang out with
who they want. Their freedom is compromised as much as mine,
well, almost. It bugs them, too, that they are seen as the
President’s kids, rather than have their own identity. The poor things have very few choices, which
makes life difficult for them. “Can we have that chocolate mousse again
daddy,” my first daughter asks. “No darling,” I say, “I’ve decided
we’re having apple pie for dessert tonight.” They sit there, wishing they could just go
out into the city and run around like normal people. They are well-aware that somewhere secret
service guys are waiting. They know that right now thousands if not
millions of people are saying awful things about their father. The other day one of my daughters came home
crying because a kid at school had shown her a photo of me from my university days that
has been circling around the internet. The photo shows me lying on the floor asleep,
covered in my own vomit, with the word, “LOSER” written on my forehead. I have to admit, for a moment I did wonder
if it was ok to send a few guys around to that kid’s house and make the 11-year sweat
a bit. Still, guilty as charged, the past is the
past. We watch a bit of TV and that usually means
Netflix. The news for me feels like watching work,
so that’s a no no after 6 pm. If news should happen, I’ll be the first
to know. Around 11 pm I get into bed with my wife. I can tell she’s still a bit upset about
the color scheme thing, but she’ll get over it. As usual I’m waiting for that late night
call regarding some important matter or other, but it doesn’t come. I grab my self-help book and start reading
from one chapter… ”Whenever we are wrong we should admit it
immediately. When we fight we never get enough, but by
yielding we often get more than we expected.” I lean over and hug my wife. “Sorry about the argument today,” I say. “Ouch!” she suddenly cries. “Have you clipped your toenails lately? Those things feel like talons.”. “I can’t seem to find the clippers,”
I tell her. She turns off her bedside lamp, and mutters
in a tired voice, “Don’t we have staff for that kind of thing?” For some reason those words dig into me. I’m arguably the most powerful man in the
world. I have nuclear weapons on my responsibility
list. I can help speed up or slow down environmental
degradation…I make decisions that can lift up the poor or send them into a poverty spiral,
I’m supposed to be a wise guy…and yet…and yet I need someone to help me cut my own toenails. Tomorrow I will wake up and half the world
will be railing against me. Some will be backing me up, others will just
be calling me names... a minority will be thinking analytically about my every move. I’m an angel and a demon, a doppelganger
of my former self, and I can actually see myself getting older by the day, looking like
someone I don’t know. I can no longer see the child in my face. He’s been erased. I’m a theater now, a variety of impersonations,
a troupe of players I’ve internalised. Ok, I stole that from the author Philip Roth,
but it shows I read great American literature. I’m no dummy, despite what they say about
me. And what I’ve just said is true of my job. I feel lost...yet at the top of the world. I’m no longer a loser, but to be honest
with you, winning the biggest prize in politics hasn’t been the best thing I’ve achieved. Will history be kind to me? I don’t know the answer to that question. Right now, I have to act like a Buddhist monk
and empty my mind or those bags under my eyes will just get bigger and bigger. I’m slowly tuning out. Being careful not to slash my wife’s legs
with my toenails, I turn towards her now-sleeping face and tell her I love her. At that moment I truly feel human, like a
real man, not just a President. Maybe she’s right about the spicy color-scheme. I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow night,
after I get back from Davos. .
We had some fun with this fictional video, but if you want to know some of the real things
that go down in the White House then we suggest you watch this educational show, “The President's
Escape Plan If The US Is Attacked.” Or perhaps you’d prefer this other video
instead. Either way, click one now!
