Good morning, voters. Just last night I signed my name without pausing to 200 pieces of pending legislation, each of them crafted to meet a specific human need, but I couldn’t sign the 201st. It was a crafty piece of legislation too, I’m told, something you would have liked, with an inspirational title and hundreds of pages of fiscal non-irresponsibility, but my hand refused to go through the motions of my signature. There’s a scientific name for this condition; I have an unpaid intern researching the term for you reporters. He’s a fine, enthusiastic young man, I’m told; loves democracy, he says; but lacks the killer instinct to do democracy any good. I give him two weeks. I can’t even say it stopped; it was a non-starter from the start. I brought the pen down to the page and couldn’t think how to start my name. It’s on posters all over this State, voters; you posted them yourselves; you shout my name at every passing limousine, but my hand didn’t know my name. Did it ever? What sort of candidate can’t govern his fingers? I started this campaign the day after my inauguration three years ago with what I thought was a clear vision. Every day since, you’ve told me I was wrong, but never how to be right. I meant to appear to be speaking for you, but now that I’ve met you, I’m not sure you know what you want. Frankly, you’re flip-floppers, when what I need is a constituency guided by principles. My wife is here with me tonight but not my son. She polls well; he doesn’t. She’s here to distract you and keep me from imploding. Tell her, please, once and for all, what you can’t tell me. I’ll be in the pressroom napping.

Copyright © February 29, 2008 David Hodges

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