Hi. I will be your next President. If you want me to be. I suppose you’d like to hear what my plans are. How I might approach the job. O.K. Fair enough. Here goes.

After walking the dog, I will eat an egg-salad sandwich for breakfast. With a pickle. And then some dark chocolate from Trader Joe’s. That’s it. Every morning. Same thing. I don’t have time for thinking about this kind of nonsense every day—I’ve got Presidenting to do.

Then I’ll go to work. I will meet with my Cabinet. Behind closed doors. I’ll listen to their suggestions, and nod, and give a thumbs-up, and say, “O.K., sounds like you’re workin’ on it.” I will not pick the best people, but I will pick the best people I can find who have been working in their fields for at least twenty-five years. This is my “experience” rule. You have to have had experience in what you are doing. Sorry, that’s my rule.

After the meeting I will have a snack (Powerbar, any kind—they’re all basically the same) as I walk to photo ops and wave to Americans. I will not make any announcements. I will not be answering questions from the press. This will be my favorite part of the day. Just meeting people. Not arguing with them. You’re going to love my ability to nod and smile while people awkwardly thank me. I have learned how to do this in my years as a show-biz “personality.” White bread, straight ahead. That’ll be my slogan. Hate on it, if you want—I’ll be on your side!

Anyway, back to how I will do a great job as President.

Lunch. Lunch will vary. Either a hamburger (no bun, on lettuce), pizza (thin crust, not a lot of cheese), or tuna-salad bagel. Forget that list. Just the bagel, every day.

Then I’ll hit the golf course. I will have photos taken of me playing golf for ten minutes. I will not play golf, but there will be plenty of pictures of me “playing golf.” You all seem to like them a lot more than I like playing golf. Golf doesn’t feel like a good use of anyone’s time, and I’m including professional golfers, who, like all of us, will die one day.

Now it’s me time. YouTube videos—just let me scroll for fifteen minutes. Make that an hour. I can use the bathroom while I do this. You won’t know I’m gone, and I’ll be multitasking. Might check out the Criterion Collection for a bit. Some old movie that is, frankly, not very well made but is just “sturdy” and “does the trick”—“feels like a movie.” Know what I mean? Doesn’t matter. Let me have this.

After that, I will walk to the helicopter and shout answers to questions over the chopper-blade noise. This will be exciting, and no one expects clear, concise, profound answers, so I will provide unclear, messy, shallow answers, and mostly say some version of “We’re working on that very thing right now!” I’ll mention that I’m in a hurry, salute the marine, and board the helicopter. Then the press will be excused and I will exit the helicopter (it never left the ground), salute the marine again, and head back to the White House.

I will attend any and all evening events, but only for the first half hour. I’m happy to take pictures, happy to introduce folks, happy to shake hands and smile and wish everyone well. Then it’s an “Irish goodbye”—out the back door, home to the home part of the house, and a small bowl of yogurt (plain, some granola in it) and a bowl of popcorn (salt and pepper, no butter, no cheese). I will invite my wife to watch me mess around with the TV remote for exactly twenty minutes, give up on that, and crack open my laptop to scroll through the news and mutter the word “idiots.” That’s pretty much my day.

Of course, my “body man” will always be nearby, and if there’s a world-shaking emergency, or even just a national one, he will tell me. If there’s a disaster, I will feel genuinely bad and I’ll say so. I will be happy to read from the Bible (but not the parts about who begat whom). I’ll be a good guy. If I don’t feel particularly generous or kind, I will fake it. I can do this. I’ve been a minor celebrity for twenty-plus years.

Weekends, I will not work. I will not attend any international summits or any of that performative fancy-pants junk. I will be easy to find, as I will be puttering around the White House or walking my dog. If you can’t find me, that means I’ve popped down to the White House bowling alley, where I’ll be thinking, Can you believe this? A bowling alley in the basement? Nuts.

I’ll be honest with you—most days, I won’t even make it onto the news. I won’t do anything that might provide “footage.” I will not say anything remarkable. You won’t know I’m there, and if I’m there you will think, He’s a pretty decent guy—at least he’s making an honest effort. You might also think, Well, he loves his kids. That’s mostly all he talks about, when he talks.

So, yeah, I’ll be your next President. I think I’m the man for the moment. I feel like people might be up for it. Now I gotta go walk the dog. Note: I will not be campaigning; this will be the last you hear from me. Let me know how you vote. Oh, and I promise not to contest the election . . . unless I win. ♦