"...so help me God."
"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America."
"Thank you, Justice Cray. And thank you, those people of this great country who voted for me. I am deeply honored.
"As your new president, by the power vested in me by the Constitution, and due to the monstrous, monumental, and crippling deficit, I hereby declare a State of National Emergency."
And the world turned upside down.
I was up late one night, watching a rerun of the inauguration of "Slick Willie" Clinton. I was slightly intoxicated, and had all kinds of ideas about how the country should be run, how politicians should act, and what I'd do if I was given the chance to achieve my ideas. I was only twenty-one years old, untried in the real world. I was a self-styled artist in the performing, written and graphic arts. And I had never served--nor intended to serve--in any politically oriented office in my life.
I did nothing at first; I merely kept a journal of my ideas, where they took shape and form as I edited and rewrote them. There they waited until I was twenty-seven and ran for office in my district. I had no platform, I just knew what my neighborhood and district needed; I gave my all for them and won a congressional nomination two years later.
After serving in the House for seven years (undefeated) I ran for Senate and won by a landslide. The people of the state, I was told by my friends, loved me because I was personable, and knew how to speak to them. I wrote my own speeches, when speeches were written at all; press conferences were never teleprompted. I won, according to some newspapers, because I answered "I don't know" to two questions. Unheard of, they said. The people replied, "No, honest."
Editorial cartoons with my caricature graced the papers from time to time, but not without my own pen replying in either defense or retort. In time, I had a nearly regular spot on the editorial page with the likes of Toles and Oliphant (before he died). Sometimes, however, I truly earned their criticism; I flubbed a line or two, or yelled something inappropriate (by some standards) when angered.
When I decided it was time to run for the Presidency the first time (yes, I was defeated in my first candidacy), the big criticisms were my lack of both wife and religion. It was said the lack of the first was queer and the other was communist (even though communism was no more). It didn't matter that I had been living with the same woman since I was elected to the House the second time, nor that I used to be a faithful Catholic until I entered college (and a Jesuit college, no less). I spent another term in the Senate before trying again; this time I tried a different tack.
I had to take the vulnerability out these parts of my life, and decided humor would be the most expedient. I claimed in college that marriage was a good institution, but not for me; "Marriage is like a Ferrari," I'd explain, "It's a beautiful car; I just can't picture myself behind the wheel."
The hard part was arguing my theological position (or more accurately, the lack thereof). In a country where "In God We Trust" graces the currency, yet prayer is illegal in schools, I was in a hard position. I am not quite sure why or how, but I convinced the masses with this argument: I believe in the power of the human person. I was convinced, I explained, that the power of the human mind to cope with a situation is almost limitless. The need to rely on some spiritual "unmoved mover" is a lessening of what I considered the true human person. There may be an all-powerful, omniscient, omnipotent God; however, I believe if he, she or it exists and did create us in his (her or its) own image, he (she, it) gave each and every one of us the power to cope with our world. I promised to retain a "spiritual advisor" for help in crisis, but chose a trusted psychologist to help me sort out my thoughts instead of a holy man, inspired by "higher powers." I respected the opposing views, and convinced them that my position would harm no one, and in fact, would help some people free themselves from oppression by other religious beliefs. By the time November came around, people rallied at my defence with battle-cries of "Freedom of Religion, including None!"
No one knew I was going to announce what I did. My economic advisors knew I was planning something, but had no clue it would be this drastic. Or this quick. But I made a campaign promise to put a dent in the deficit, if not eradicate it completely. I started by disallowing any type of inaugural parades or excess. No balls, parties, or rallies; we had the four national television networks, three press agencies, and a few foreign wire-service representatives present. No pomp, circumstance, or cash outlay. We saved one-half million dollars from the last inauguration.
I turned from the podium and rolled up my shirtsleeves in a classic gesture; there was a lot of work to be done...