Mr. President!

Andy awoke to the intermittent buzz of the vidi-phone, wondering, “Who on earth can be calling at this hour?” He turned down the infra-red heating units, tossed a couple of Insta-Wake! tablets into a glass of water, and swung his feet out of bed. Oh, man! What was the name of that bar? Antares? He’d have to remember that one. Unlike the majority of the local hangouts, they were serving pure Peruvian Shake-water, as the size of his headache throbbingly confirmed. He threw a shoe at the offending phone, drank the glass of sickeningly sweet liquid, and staggered over to the desk. “They can land a woman on Mars, but they still can’t make a hangover cure that doesn’t taste like lizard spit,” he muttered, and punched the TRANSMIT button.

As the message appeared on the screen, Andy’s eyes grew larger, his frown grew deeper, and he promptly realized that he had to be hallucinating. “Must be some weird reaction to last night’s drugs and the morning’s stimulant,” he thought. He slapped himself in an effort to return to reality, miscalculated the amount of force needed, and knocked himself out of the chair. As he pulled himself back up, he came face to screen with the computer display, realized that it wasn’t a figment of his imagination, and sat back to contemplate the meaning of the fifteen words appearing before him:

“Congratulations, Mr. Weenarian, you have just been elected President of the United States of America.”

Andy realized that ever since the Election Reform Act was passed back in ’23 that it was possible for any citizen to be randomly selected to head the country, but like most Americans, he never thought the computers would actually stick him with the job. Oh sure, it was mostly a ceremonial post now, and he wouldn’t mind the pension, but it would also play havoc with your life for the fourteen months, seven days of your term. “This is gonna be a major-league pain in the ass,” he grumbled.

He didn’t know how true that statement would be until later that morning.

He was sitting on the john doing his morning duty when two men wearing aviator sunglasses walked in. “Good morning, Mr. President,” said the first man, who looked a good deal like Charles Bronson on a bad day. “Good morning, Mr. President,” said the second man, and Andy thought he detected a slight lisp. “Secret Service,” said the first man. “I’m afraid that we’ll be your constant companions for the next few months. Would you like a wipe?”

“Get the hell out of my bathroom!” Andy screamed, and shook a tube of Preparation-H menacingly at the men, who beat a hasty retreat. “Kind of testy, isn’t he?” man number one said as they left. Andy could hear them outside the door calling in their report, “President Weenarian awake and alert. Currently pinching a loaf. Refused Secret Service assistance.”

“What next?” Andy wondered, and reached for the toilet paper, which of course, was empty. He hopped out of the bathroom, shorts around his ankles, and was just reaching into the closet for more tissue when he was greeted by a chorus of, “Mr. President! Mr. President!” He turned around and was greeted by the White House press corps.

The rest of his day was spent signing legislation such as a bill prohibiting the sale of LSD to pre-schoolers before noon, another authorizing medical experimentation on people convicted of speeding twice in a three-year period, and a controversial amendment to the Constitution that called for the public flogging of anyone caught having sex with the lights on. “All good laws,” he thought.

Later that night as he was preparing for bed, he walked over to the window and gazed out at the city. “Maybe it won’t be so bad being President,” he thought. He was Somebody now. And as he was about to turn away from the city lights, a small hole appeared in the window, followed by a small hole appearing in Andy’s head.

The Secret service men rushed to his side. “Didn’t you tell him about windows?!” asked man
number one.

“I thought you did,” said man number two, “Oh, shit.”

And so ended the shortest term ever of America’s highest appointed official. A national hour of
mourning was declared, and his name was etched into history.

Lincoln, Kennedy... Weenarian.