What the American political system needs is a change: Replace the presidential debates with a presidential dinner date.
The rules: Gore and Dubya would each get one chance to bag an eligible “bachelorette” from Southern California. Cameras follow them everywhere they go and the dates are fully funded by taxpayer money. Using the dinner date system, the American public would get to see the candidates for who they really are.
Here’s what happened when the candidates took me out:
Bush was a smooth talker. “So,” he breathed as he licked a cigar. “Your father must be Saddam Hussein because he stole the stars from the flag and put them in your eyes.”
“What’re you ordering?” I asked, trying to stay cool. “I think I’ll have a salad.”
“Oh, come on, that figure o’ yours is divine, why not let me treat you to a big ol’ lobster?” he said as he rubbed his foot across my leg.
“Be-have, George,” I blushed. He knew that I was already his.
“A guy like you needs some hot lovin’ from a man named Bush, doesn’t he?” the governor gushed.
I jumped into his arms and we had a wild night. After the champagne dried off my belly button and the sweet stylings of Al Green emptied from my ears, I cuddled with Georgey and we watched Jay Leno. The man knows how to treat a date.
Gore, however, lived up to his reputation. After we sat down for dinner, he grunted and groaned some pleasantries to me and started scribbling his tax plans on some napkins.
“The middle class needs a tax cut,” Gore said as he lurched at me. “We can’t afford to spend money on a big tax cut for only the wealthy.”
I was bored. “So, who do you think will win the Subway Series?” I hissed, trying to seduce him with my eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know–The Mets?” He mumbled, looking perplexed. Then, abruptly, he stammered, “So, you up for some, ahem, intercourse? I remembered the condoms.”
“Well, I have never–” I yelled as I ran away from the table. I caught a taxi and ordered the cabbie to take me to the Park Hyatt. Bush was waiting for me in his posh hotel room.
“I knew you’d come back. I knew you needed a nice, harsh Republican to lower taxes, boost military spending, push the country back 10 years, and put the ‘Boom Boom’ back in Boom Boom Room.” All I heard was the Boom Boom part. I hopped into Dubya’s arms and we made love all night long.
Afterward, as we smoked cigarettes, Bush said, “You know, when I’m president, I’m gonna have a damn good time. That Gore guy, he’s all cone but no ice cream. Back in college, we used to call that kinda guy a grade-A dufus.”
“Yeah,” I added. “Gore won’t enjoy the presidency like Clinton did. You deserve it more. You’ll take bribes, cheat on your wife a little, maybe smoke pot with Pol Pot–now that would be sweet.”
“Sweet as a Texas cheerleader,” Bush smiled. “Sweet as mince meat pie.”