About six months ago, I woke up in an empty house, just as I had for the past month.

As
I smoked my first joint of the morning, I meandered through 8000 square feet of soulless
furniture, soaking in the vast emptiness of the 37 rooms. I suppose living in this kind of
environment is prone to make a person depressed. I, however, had never been happier inside of
my familys house.
The first to leave had been my mother, who, when I was 6 months old, packed a
suitcase full of cash from under the tempurpedic mattress and absconded to Europe. The next
to go was my step-brother, Trey, who had spent his whole life either beating me up or
pretending I didnt exist. After graduating prep school, he breezed through Harvard Law due to
an intense affinity for lying. For years, his talent for ignoring the truth kept his friends and family
from dubbing his equally intense (probably genetic) affinity for hard liquor a problem. Despite
his frequently problematic attitude and lifestyle, he was always my fathers favorite because at
least his choices were grown up. The third to leave was actually me, however, my leave of
absence from the family estate turned out to be temporary. After graduating from a tiny private
school with a B.S. degree in Genericized Studies, I followed in the footsteps of most of the
programs alumni by remaining unemployed and moving back in with my dad. Two days later,
the Supreme Court ruled that age restrictions on Presidential candidates were unconstitutional,
and my dad announced that my 27 year old step-brother was running for President. With help
from my dads company, the multi-billion dollar Tampler Media Group, Trey had quickly become
a shoo-in for the Republican nomination. Left to my own devices with no job prospects and
virtually unlimited cash, I had done my best to change the atmosphere of the house. Instead of
the haze of unmet expectations and bitterness that usually suffocated the homes Victorian
frame, I made a point to fill the place with the clarity of marijuana smoke and old cartoons, the
two things that made me happiest.
The day began just like any other; I pulled on some sweatpants, lit up a joint at the
kitchen counter and devoured a box of Apple Jacks with 2% milk. On TV, a plasticy woman with
pinned up cheeks was saying something about my step-brother and a bridge, probably another
ribbon cutting. I didnt feel like seeing a pompous drunkard wield giant scissors, so I flipped to a
channel playing Superman cartoons. I smiled when I saw that they were playing the old 1940s
shorts where Clark Kent changes in a phone booth and saves Lois Lane from the Villain of the
Week. Even though she almost died every 11 minutes, I always found it difficult to sympathize
with Lois. If she would just relax and let some other excitable journalist tackle some of the more
dangerous assignments, she wouldnt need a caped crusader to come to rescue her; in a
sense, shed be rescuing herself.
During my 2nd joint, 3rd cartoon and 4th bowl of Apple Jacks, an unfamiliar sound came
from the normally tranquil front yard. Screeching tires drowned out the familiar narration about
The Amazing Stranger from the planet Krypton. A loud crash reverberated through house,
shaking the TV just enough to distort the picture. Lit joint in hand, I walked out onto the terrace;
sure enough, there was my fathers black Beemer flipped on its side, smashed into the oakpaneling of the garage door. I took another pull from the burning paper between my fingers,
descended the exterior stairs and stepped out into the driveway. The gravel scraped the
bottoms of my feet.

This scene played out a few times every year. Dad bought BMWs because they were easy to
replace but had pretty good safety features. After a few seconds of silence, I called out,
Dad...ya good?
Fucking dandy shrilled an irate voice from inside the car. While I gingerly trod across the
minefield of pointy rocks, the back of the car ignited, so I changed direction to grab the fire
extinguisher from the garage. While I looked for a tank, an impeccably pressed black suit
climbed out of the burning wreckage and plopped easily onto the gravel.
Weve got to get this damn driveway paved. These are calf skin shoes and Im still being
tortured. His glance shifted to me, fire extinguisher in one hand, joint in the other.
Get rid of that stupid thing, we dont have time for that right now.
I dropped the extinguisher to the ground and followed him into the house. He muttered
swears to himself as his Ferragamos shuffled from the marble tiling of the foyer to the maple
parquet of the living room. At last, they found a comfortable resting place in front of the french
lacquer liquor cabinet. I switched off between the joint and spoonfuls of cereal while he poured
himself an infuriated glass of cognac.
Dad, its 9 AM, shouldnt you hold off
Son, youre 24, shouldnt you have a job?
I took a long draw from the spliff while he knocked back a solid two shots of brandy. This
was followed by a delicate silence which I haphazardly broke after a few uncomfortable
seconds.
So, what brings you home? Doesnt Trey have rallies along the East Coast this week?
Your brother is no longer running for President.
My dad rose from the settee and reintroduced the bottle to his snifter until the ornate
floral etchings on the side were drowned in a caramel liquid.
You mean Trey dropped?
Yes, off a bridge. That drunk little shithead drove right through the guardrail.
At that moment, an odd feeling swept over me, but it was not the strong sense of
anguish I was expecting. As awful as it sounds, I think I felt relieved that I would never have to
see Trey again. I suppose that might make me a bad person, but my step-brother, much like my
father, had a perpetually abusive personality that made it difficult to miss him. God only knows
what could have happened if hed won the election. Although my dad was clearly feeling a
mixture of emotions, he appeared to be drinking out of anger much more than out of grief. All of
this made me ponder my own mortality, and hope to heaven that the thought of my death would
never make anyone smile.

Lost in my thoughts, I didnt notice the bottle of brandy go from mostly full to half empty
until the ember from my joint reached my finger and singed me, making me painfully aware of
my surroundings. My father had been occupying himself in the silence by staring into his nowempty snifter, then back at me as I lit another joint.
You know whats even more tragic than death, son? Wasted money. If only there were another
candidate who could run in his place. But where could I find someone with name recognition
and nothing to do for the next 4 years?
I quickly realized what he was implying, but I didnt want to answer. I puffed my joint
again to avoid giving a response. My dad saw the fear across my face and tried to
simultaneously console and persuade me.
You dont have to give up smoking, if thats what youre worried about, we can keep it under
wraps. You dont have to do anything besides wear a suit and read a teleprompter with good
diction. Besides, do you realize what you could legalize once you were in office?
I looked down at the burning object in my hand and knew what I needed to do. So, after
a quick trip to my dealers place and a $10,000 trip to Brooks Brothers, I was on a jet to
Washington, DC to meet with my new campaign staff. I had no idea what was going on most of
the time I was there, but my father assured me that I didnt need to understand the race, I
needed to win the race.
At first I was nervous that I wouldnt even win the primaries because they happened only
two weeks after I announced my candidacy, but the public was very receptive to my youth, my
vigor and my last name. During those 14 days, I gave the same speech about The Greatness
of America 27 times. I was also a guest on 12 different talk shows which were tangentially
owned by the Tampler Media Group. Initially, I was scared that some of the hosts would give me
a hard time for enrolling late and possessing absolutely no qualifications, but somehow that
never came up. Instead, they stuck to a pre-written script very close to the flashcards I studied
with my dad before each interview.
Your brothers death? - Deeply saddened
Your religious background?- Deeply rooted
Democrats? - Deeply disturbed
The campaign staff also created a list of keywords for me to memorize. Every time I spoke in
public, I was to include at least one of the following: Family values, Christian morals, Liberal
extremists or Hard-working Americans. Although I felt that the keyword strategy restrained my
creativity, I noticed that when I stuck to those phrases, the crowds went absolutely wild. They
also, for some reason, loved it when I made dirgeful commentary on international tragedies. To
facilitate my frequently foggy memory, my campaign staff started summarizing key news items

for me in easy-to-remember sentences. For example, after a subway car derailed in Barcelona,
killing the the occupants and a bystander, my father and I repeated back and forth:
The Slain in Spain were mainly on the Train
Although my whirlwind campaign was largely successful, the frontrunner in the days
leading up to the primaries was Mac Swillabby, a religious fundamentalist and Pork Rind
Tycoon. Even the polls run by my fathers networks showed Mac several points ahead of me.
With only 24 hours until the first primary, it looked as though my political career was over. But
then, out of nowhere came what was only known as The Photograph. The image in question
was a blurry photocopy of a polaroid, which appeared to show Swillabby in a compromising
position with a hog. Nobody seemed to be sure who took it or even whether it was real, but the
media was ruthless. The picture itself was quickly removed Facebook and formally banned from
TV broadcasts, but it was too late for ol Mac. The image was indelibly imprinted into the minds
of voters, whether they had actually seen it or only heard about it. On the morning of the first
primary, the entire situation was pithily summed up by the front page of the New York Times;
Potential President Porks his Pork? Poll Projections Plummet!
In case it wasnt obvious, I won in a landslide.
If the primaries had been a whirlwind, the actual election was a supercell tornado.
Swirling around me in all directions were cliched speeches, generic promises, and $5,000 plates
of fundraising food which just made me want a Whopper and some onion rings. Cameras
followed me everywhere, many of them attached to Iphones. I was asked to pose for no fewer
than 10,000 selfies, and unwittingly participated in many others. The republican party was
thrilled to have such a dominant social media presence. For the first time, the democratic
nominees hashtags were trending less often than the republican candidates.
The race was neck and neck in the months leading up to November. Because people
had stopped caring about the issues around July, my opponent and I spent the better part of the
last four months trying to make one another look bad. My democratic competition was Hope
Darling, a tabloid heiress whose father was also very well connected. Our camps took turns
exposing the opposition for the dirty crooks we werent. First, she said I had a bad voting
record which she took back after realizing I had never held office. Then, one of her little
paparazzo published a photo of me smoking a joint, which created a strong initial backlash.
However, the public essentially forgot about that when one of my fathers news stations dug up
a photo of a young Darling at a neo-nazi rally. Soon we were McCarthying each other with antipatriotism accusations, eventually culminating in a yo-mamma fight during the penultimate
debate. By the time we were approaching the actual election, the trending tweet for the
upcoming final debate was #childish.

The night before the final debate, my father and I went to an expensive French restaurant for
what he said would be a very special meal. The cafe itself was massive, but the building was
almost entirely empty. In the center of the checkerboard floor sat table covered in a fine purple
cloth. Seated at the table were none other than Hope Darling and her father, Trip Darling.
Having no clue as to what was going on, I followed my dad to the table, were I sat directly
across from the woman who had started a formal rebuttle in last weeks debate with Yo
mammas so fat
Kids, frankly, the two of you are embarrassments to our respective families. Therefore, we have
decided to end this silly little election in order to preserve whats truly important, our last names.
Now take a few paces, and draw.
Hope and I looked at each other horrified. Neither of us wanted to fire physical shots at one
another. Thats when my father cleared his throat and clarified:
We mean, you kids need to play Rock, Paper, Scissors. Loser drops out. Winner gets to be
president.
As I looked into the eyes of the other potential chief executive of the United States, I had only
one question; could she tell I was obviously a scissors guy?
That night, I learned what is apparently the most important lesson in all of politics.
Nobody expects a scissors guy to throw paper.