I feel like I don’t even know you anymore, democracy. We used to be so close. We had a great run, don’t get me wrong. Remember when we went to Florida and got lost? Or when we had that four-day peyote trip with Ross Perot?
But we’re more than 200 years into this experiment, and I have to be honest with you: you’re boring. You’re a PBS special on Dutch Elm disease. You’re the technical awards at the Oscars. You’re a lettuce fart in locked car.
If we’re going to keep seeing each other we need to spice up our relationship. No more going to bed with the prettiest guy with the nicest hair. When we first started going steady you would only talk to white guys with land. Now every Tom, Debrickashaw and Jaunita gets to bend your ear.
We need a new way of doing things. If the 2012 Bataan Death March has taught us anything, we are falling behind the times. We need a relationship for the 21st century. People want something sexy, something intriguing, something that is going to make them take notice. A ruling ideology that’s a freak in the sheets and a lady in the streets.
Let’s boost our q-rating. And I think I’ve found out how we save this republic of ours.
May I present you to our future: “1600,” the world’s first democracy reality show.
Every four years presidential candidates will be forced to participate in a “Fear Factor” style competition to determine who will lead us.
The show will be set at the Thunderdome. Each week, candidates will be forced to vie for your vote by humiliating themselves and proving their love of This republic. Think about the ratings when we lock Michelle Obama in the scorpion helmet and make Barack Obama eat 30 rotten pig penises in less than five minutes to get the pad lock combination. Throw Mitt Romney into the Sarlaac pit to square off against fifty angry wolverines with nothing but his wits and magic underwear.
What better way for a president to prove he loves us. Look at how many women Flavor Flav got to date him using this model, and that guy is dog shit piled 5 feet 3 inches high, and he has whores aplenty.
No more of this “one man, one vote” nonsense, either. And no more having to register to vote for that matter. No more driving 10 minutes to a polling place and waiting your turn behind that crazy old lady that somehow reeks of cat pee but hasn’t owned a living cat in more than a decade.
Why can’t we text our votes? Or better yet, let’s sext our votes from our couches at home.
I have a raging electorate just thinking about this plan.
After all the sexts have been cast and counted we’ll present the winner with the keys to the White House. That’s followed by a slow motion capture of the winner climbing the bloodied steps passed those marble, Athenian columns as a Queen song blares out and F-15s screech across the morning sky.
Cut to the loser, sucking eggs on the front lawn before secret service agents beat the living hell out of him and his family.
Cut. Print. Liberty!