Mr. President, please consider my application to be your chief of staff
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, DC 20500
Dear Mr. President,
It has come to my attention that you are once again in need of a chief of staff. This job is vitally important to the success of your presidency, as you indicated when you tweeted, in 2012: “3 Chief of Staffs in less than 3 years of being President: Part of the reason why @BarackObama can’t manage to pass his agenda.”
With the planned departure of John Kelly, you’re on pace to hit three chiefs in under two years. And while the month since the midterms has frankly been a nice break from all the winning, you need someone to get this presidency back on track.
Mr. President: I’m your guy.
While my qualifications may not look like much compared to the retired Marine Corps general I’d be replacing, my real-world experience is substantial.
Think about it: Your administration has been notable for its backbiting, turf wars, petty jealousy, and nonsensical tantrums. You don’t need a general. You need an extremely tired dad.
As the father of both a 2-year-old and a 2-month-old, I am accustomed to dealing with exactly the kind of infighting that reportedly dominates the day-to-day in the West Wing. You need a stern father-figure type for your top advisers — some of whom, by mere coincidence I’m sure, happen to be your own children. You’re the first president in history who could resign to spend less time with his family.
But hey, it’s not your fault you raised such remarkable offspring, and Eric.
Fatherhood has also helped me master a soothing tone of voice that will come in handy if you or Ben Carson get stuck in an elevator again. And spending time with a toddler has taught me the art of maintaining a neutral facial expression, even when someone is saying something totally bonkers directly to my face, again and again. I guess that’s the difference between a four-star general and a five-star dad.
Dirty work? Well, given all the messes your cabinet secretaries seem to make — whatever happened to Scott Pruitt, anyway? — you definitely want someone who knows how to clean up a mess. Compared to the potty incident we had in Quincy a few weeks ago, clearing all the Coke cans and half-eaten songbirds out of Steve Bannon’s old office will be child’s play.
I’ll even blow the cobwebs out of the crypt where Stephen Miller sleeps.
I know that you, as a high IQ and highly intelligent person, could handle all of this yourself. But you’ve got more important things to do, like committing obstruction of justice on Twitter, and golf.
Now, some of the folks you’re considering might worry that they’ll never live down their association with you. Getting chased out of restaurants and picketed in my own driveway doesn’t sound great.
It would be hard to leave my family here in Boston, but I’m sure my kids will be fine. Maybe, as the esteemed Mr. Kelly so delicately described the plans for immigrant children separated from their parents at the border, they will be “put into foster care or whatever.”
You might never find anyone else who can maintain Kelly’s gravitas while simultaneously going along with your most ghoulish and indefensible ideas.
But you know what has two thumbs and would happily trade away any remaining dignity it has for a few hours of peace and quiet during football season?
That’s right: This guy. Now just imagine what I’d do for a giant pile of money.
Need me to fly to Moscow for something very legal and very cool? No problem. Want to dispatch someone senior to Saudi Arabia for something unspeakable? On it. Hoping someone can teach the White House kitchen how to bake a cake with a file in it? I’m sure I could make that happen.
And since I wasn’t involved with your campaign, I have not already committed any obvious felonies that you know of. You like your advisers the way you like your war heroes: Uncaptured.
It’ll be months before I’m indicted.
And anyway, that’s what the cakes are for.