A series of open letters
to the 2012 Presidential Election
Dear 2012 Presidential Election,
You are boring.
I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, 2012 Presidential Election, but you lack the messiah-versus-decorated-war-hero with a side of possible Great Depression drama of 2008, the raw lefty hatred of 2004, and it seems very unlikely that you’ll end with the photo-finish of 2000. Like I said: boring.
Since you’re struggling, I have reached out to various players with helpful ideas. Hopefully, at least one or two will take me up on them, and you will redeem yourself.
You can thank me later,
Kelly
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Dear Mitt Romney,
I know there is a 98.2 percent chance that you are a real human being, with blood in your veins and a gallbladder and all that.
But on the off-chance that you are actually a bumbling but kindhearted animatronic robot whose real name is MitTrom237-XT, you should reveal your true nature immediately.
As it stands, you just seem off in a disconcerting way. But if you are, in fact, a robot, there are all sorts of opportunities. Your poll numbers will skyrocket when the American people finally understand and embrace you as Science made you. Disney would certainly option a live-action family movie based on your clumsy-yet-lovable attempts to live as us humans do.
Think about it,
Kelly
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Dear Barack Obama,
Your public persona is sort of the “OK, OK guys. Enough horsing around. Let’s run some plays,” type of Pop Warner football coach. Sedate. Dull. Likely to ask us to take a knee, then ramble for 20 minutes about the importance of padding.
Far and away the coolest moment of your presidency was when you killed that fly in midair; I suggest that you further cultivate your swift, unexpected killing-with-your-bare-hands talents. Pop out of nowhere and karate-chop a coyote in the throat right before it eats a baby, or something. Smoke a cigarette while you do this, then flick it right into a mosquito. Smile quietly as both fall out of the air.
Cold as ice,
Kelly
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Dear Joe Biden,
Please have a sex scandal. Please, please, please. Ideally, have it with that biker lady whose neck you were photographed nuzzling, while her two male biker friends looked on furiously. We could all see the battles raging within those bikers — ”Well, on the one hand, he’s getting a little too friendly with Karen. On the other hand, he’s the vice-president.”
Do all of us a favor and make a dishonest woman out of Karen.
You know you want to,
Kelly
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Dear Secret Service Agents Assigned to Guard the Vice President,
The next time Smokin’ Joe is offering back massages to amenable biker ladies, make yourself scarce. Just for a minute. Don’t get too far away; the next room over would suffice.
Hopefully,
Kelly
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Dear Angry Male Bikers,
The next time you’re in the position of punching the vice president because he’s getting fresh with your lady, don’t show such uncharacteristic restraint. A bikers-vs-Secret Service roadhouse brawl is the shot-in-the-arm this election so desperately needs.
Optimistically,
Kelly
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Dear Clint Eastwood,
Thank you for singlehandedly making the Republican National Convention worth watching. I myself am constantly waging arguments against imaginary opponents in my head; kudos for having the courage to do it in front of a national audience.
I ask to you to consider moderating the first-ever Two Empty Chairs Presidential Debate. Just you, facing two empty chairs, asking all the questions, doing all the voices. You will be so much more entertaining than stupid Jim Leheherrrhehr.
Think about it,
Kelly
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Dear Callista Gingrich’s Hair,
Where have you gone, you beautiful sculpture, you stunning tableaux, you great and terrible coif? Both Ann Romney and Michelle Obama have hair that moves, and seems to follow basic laws of physics. BORING! Bring your quantum hair back, that we may all marvel anew.
Sincerely,
Kelly
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Dear Michelle Obama and Ann Romney,
Go. Go to Callista. Supplicate yourselves at her shrine of hairspray and straighteners. She will turn you away — once! Twice! Thrice! — but persist. The fourth time you petition her, she will smile, nodding almost imperceptibly. Beams of light will shoot out of her head; first just one, then another and another, until the entire room is bathed in a brilliant platinum ball of light.
At this point you will pass out, coming to in the finest salon in Greenwich, Conn. Your hair will never move again — does Michelangelo’s David move? — but it will emit a soft light, and if people put their ears up to it, they will hear the ocean.
Best,
Kelly
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Dear Herman Cain,
You. It was always you, all along. The second you came on the scene, you were like that guy in a romantic comedy who the heroine finds sooooo infuriating and soooooo unbearable and you know will end up with after 96 minutes’ worth of foibles.
You were the one this election was meant to be with. You are its destiny, and the audience knows it. Quick! Chase it through the airport before it gets on the plane and flies away forever!
I believe in love, and fate. I believe in us,
Kelly
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K. Williams Brown is a columnist for the Statesman Journal. She is full of ideas.
Originally published September 23, 2012