“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single monarch in possession of political power, must be in want of a funny hat.“ – Policy and Populism
Presidents are very serious folks. Fellows of formal attire, no doubt the cream of the legislative crop, preside every day in perspiring temperatures to perform their state-bound duties. Unfortunately, the modern president seems sorely lacking in the most proper article of the authority wardrobe: a hat. For instance, the pope, a figure commanding saintlike veneration and dictatorial authority over Christian canon, possesses perhaps the most wondrous of headdresses a peasant of poor panache will ever see. In fact, theories abound that the hat itself is the source of the pope’s power, and that inside of it one may find a common backyard animal tugging on the pope’s bald skin to manipulate their actions. Look at anybody who was ever important: kings, tsars, McDonald’s managers, clowns, the Monopoly man, children, Bilius Nile; a pattern begins to emerge. The president must have a hat. But there are such a great number of hats, that the president may settle upon one wholly unsuitable! No, the president requires a very special hat for a very special person. And why, you may ask, is the hat to be selected a jester hat? What great honor elevates this one very, very, silly hat upon the balding heads of the leaders of our very country? No reason. Article commence!
The first one’s Lincoln. Duh. He’s got a huge bloomin’ hat, what else would ya want! Within the Presidential circus, there is no doubt that Lincoln would be an excellent actor as the representation of all matters serious and whimsyless. His hat would bear the weight of countless bureaucratic sins, and would frequently be off-doffed in subtle yet utterly sincere shock at the various shenanigans perpetrated by the surrounding actors. Sort of like a laugh track, except without laughing, and with a rather large and magnificent hat. This hat, furthermore, would be frequently proffered, nabbed, or shot at, revealing his wild, grizzled facial hair, beautifully representing the internal conflict of man between the hat offered by society, on which all mannersome thought is lain to peace, and the transcendental, near-animal impulse for passion, non-regulation theater, and most important of all, whimsy, from which all great fonts of randomness spring. Or maybe it’s just a very silly and serious hat. Who knows. Lincoln would be the guy for the job. It would be him. Or it would, if he were not currently dead due to not being able to survive for 200 years under cellular decay and also being shot in the head. Real shame. Moving on.
No 2. This is the second one. Numero tuno. Tuno fishno. It’s Ronald Reagan. He has been resurrected from the eminently deceased to prance around in a circus. For people familiar with Ronald Reagan, he used to be an actor, then he became a president, then he became a corpse. For people unfamiliar with Ronald Reagan, too bad. Reagan’s training in the circustrial
arts would most probably be as the face of the circus. The man on the big screen. It’s him. As the “man,” Reagan would welcome all those derelict souls drifting on the other side of the great mortal gap. This gap, being not the graveyard’s bounty of sweet trinkets buried with rotten bones, but instead the lustre of tidy coffins. Reagan would build bridges across the gap, whose composition would probably be, of sticky popcorn and promises of funtime delight. In fact, Reagan would love a nice, cheerful, colorful, flamboyant, synonym suit to welcome all the spectators, who in this extended metaphor™ would be the readers (although breaking the fourth wall is generally frowned upon in circhestral circles, so they’re probably going to keep being referred to as spectators for the time being). Reagan is the guy on the TV screen, just like the ones people used to have, in the all-back days, that had promotions, the deals, the shiny advertisements, yeah, that guy. It would go as if, they would pan over to him, the man, the myth on the screen, and he would go over to a pedestrian. Now back in the old days people used to be a lot more street friendly, so he would go over to them, right, and say, “So what’s your idea on, I dunno, Bottom’s Up Toothpaste, or some such,” (his hesitation being entirely diegetic, and crucial for his “street guy” act), and the man, the man would go back and say to him, “Wow, I loved it! I loved going bottoms up on the toothpaste, what brand was it again?” But by the time he asked that the camera would have already panned away from him, and the man would be back, and the next night the guy (distinct from man) would be all “bottoms up” in the water! That’s the type of joke the man would make, and the crowd would all be roaring with laughter, and yelling at the man, like, “hey, what’s up with that Reaganomics business, I’m the guy who was unfamiliar, it was me,” and the man would sort of awkwardly chuckle and look away and go and get 525 electoral votes. Darned charismatic populist presidents, always pulling voters left and right. And expanding on his role, which was left a little bit lackluster in favor of an awkward and probably excessive cutaway gag, to his left would be the owner, and he would shake hands with him most of the time. And to his right, a Brave Audience Member (they’re always brave, never cowardly, what’s up with that?) would be shaking his other hand as ferociously as they could. This would probably be a great metaphor for the entertainment industry or something but we’re running out of time next president go go go.
Three. That’s the number of presidents so far, by the way. Counting this one, Millard Filmore. Electoral (dis)appointment, had a bit of a rushed presidency, this will never be relevant ever again (or will it? (it won’t)). Millard Filmore has an absolutely incredible looking face, under certain lighting conditions, that is. I mean, you could just take an image of his face, put a name under it, and the next day the nameplate nominee would sue you for obscenity and damages caused by disgust and extreme mortification. So obviously, he must be the ringleader! And for a hat, a nice gold-garnished crystal-cremated dollar-dressed nickel-’notated Homburg hat will do. Don’t know what that is? It’s like a cross between a fedora and a perfectly cylindrical object. And another fedora for good measure. Drawing upon popular depictions of ringleaders in fictional media, he would be audacious, bold, push the letter, throw the gauntlet, tip the tent pole, and a variety of other idioms that convey essentially the same idea. The point is, he would be the one with the strings. He would make all the employments, and cackle every once in a while to express dominance and also lingering insecurities. But drawing upon popular depictions of Millard Filmore in Millard Filmore, he would probably just be a shareholder. He would be positively overflowing with shares. He would give out shares to other people, and then buy them off those people for less than he sold them for, that being a negative value, and then he would sell the futures of these shares. He is in on the market. It’s him. He would have all these futures, and then the futures would be invisible to the naked eye. But he has a plan and a dream. In fact, he has a wallet. Although shares are usually unfathomably large and currently occupy the majority of the known universe, he would put them in these little slips of paper, and just throw them behind his back at peasants and their in-common peasantkind. The issue with this is, though, that even though he is not exactly the face, he may be possibly the beating heart of the circumulomecha whose undulating rivers of gold run through its veins, and it’s no good to have a heart that robs peasants who have excellent glasses prescriptions but ironically are unable to see financial fraud. The point is, Millard Filmore is like the guy who pays the bills, never the man, just a guy, and sort of fills out forms all day. Something something metaphor for capitalism something something. Next president please and thank you.
The next president is Joe Biden. That’s right, I lied, and I’ll do it again! We are dipping our toes into the Shark Tank of modern politics! This is happening! It will not stop happening! But what scathing commentary on modern politics will the introduction of this recently usurped president propose? What role will properly encompass the full-fledged heart and soul of this toppled topiary tormentor? He’s the ice cream man.
The wind howls past half-closed doors. It wooshes past bustling ankles, forcing a shiver not of anticipation, but of dread. It drifts lazily past the hurried last-minute rehearsals, curls around the wayward trombone, pushes over neatly-stacked reports. It arrives at last at the scene of a pleasant bargaining session. “Two dollars! I won’t take this for anything less than one!” says the first man. He is dressed in the spotted traveling garb of the wandering sightseer. Around his curled mustache whispers the words, “adventure,” “suspense,” “danger.” You could imagine him haranguing the old halls of long-dead kings, clasping jeweled treasures beneath an upturned elbow, anything but at this humble outdoormestic scene, haggling to keep his last spare coins. His analocatomotion seems bothersome to him. Sweat forms on his brow, and he twitches involuntarily at every faint grasp of paltry coin proffered. “I do ‘pologize, sir. Need to stay in business ‘round these parts. ‘sides, it’s plenty good ice cream. Worth a pretty buck or two, don’t you think?” The second man tips his tropical sunglasses down and stares down the traveler. Around his freshly-shaved lip is the barest touch of whimsy, the near-imperceptible twinge of good humor. In other times, perhaps he would chuckle around a tavern stool, formulate games of chance on a creaking pirate caravel, presidensecede in the name of his country, dream up high tales around a roaring bonfire. Here, he only cares about one thing: his bright neon pink ice cream truck and profit. The sightseer grumbles a bit, pulls out two dollars, and departs in narrative irrelevance. Mr. Biden suddenly catches sight of the time on his worn pocket-watch. He sighs, and takes one last glance at the setting he’s been inexplicably written into. Twilight seems to grasp the daylight rays, snuffing them slowly yet inexorably. As if to spite eternity, a tent sits across the road, flooded with whimsical light. Inside, no doubt, actors dance and orate across a polished stage, whilst cannons and drums boom in equal measure. Spectators throw popcorn into the air, gasping at each new tragic turn in their revelrous tale. The slow ticking of a watch is heard. It’s the ticking that says this has gone on way too long and we need to get back on track. For goodness’ sake, we haven’t even seen Biden’s hat yet! (It’s a boater hat). The watch reluctantly ticks out a paragraph break, like so:
And we are back in action. That last paragraph never existed. Time for the next president. Here it comes. Whoop de doo.
It’s you! You are the most important person in the world. So important, in fact, that you just got elected by some kind of college of electorates, who aren’t entirely sure why they chose you but are no doubt beaming with pride. You are tasked with “ending the article with some kind of moral message,” which you actually do know what to do because your parents were very morally indulgent and provided you with lots of nice pithy statements. For instance: “When bad times come, good times will come soon as well, because the universe is naturally karma-neutral.” Your parents are such very knowledgeable folks. Fin.
