Trask Avenue

I don’t live in a fantasy world. I’ve tried that and ended up with unexplainable scars. And my theory is if you’re going to get scars, it’s good to know how you got ‘em. Not so much so you can avoid doing again whatever it was that you did to end up filleted like a fresh flounder, although that is a valid enough reason. Rather, so I can embellish the scar story and turn what was probably a horrifying or, worse yet, embarrassing story into something heroic, yet appropriately modest.

“Oh, this little jagged road that runs across my stomach, around the side and up the length of my back? It’s nothing really. A few years ago I was at the market when these punks started hassling a sweet little old lady. (Tip: Always say “punks”. A subliminal Clint Eastwood thing happens.) I only did what anyone would’ve done and I got this scar as a reward. You know, I forget it’s even there, except in the spring when it gets itchy.”

Another reason I don’t live in a fantasy world is because everything there is too confusing. Are you allowed to turn right on red? Will I even know how to drive those fancy fantasy vehicles? What about coupons? Are they doubled? Why do people wear shoes made of bottle caps? Do animals talk? If they talk do they expect a response? Will my waiter have antennas and a penchant for quoting Wordsworth? All of these unknowns make me very uncomfortable, so I’ve found it’s best to avoid them.

Since I don’t live a fantasy world, I realize I would probably never be elected President. It’s not that my politics are extreme. Heck, extremists get elected all the time in far off, exotic places like Mississippi and northern Morris County. It’s not my complete lack of political experience. Apparently, some people do rather well with the experience of a gnat. No, I would have difficulty getting elected because I’d speak my mind, state my platform and inadvertently wear mismatching socks. (Hey, what can I say? The sock drawer is dark. What do you expect me to do? Put a lamp in there? That would be silly.)

As one small example, I would strongly advocate reducing the number of states. Combine what we have into a more manageable number. Like 7. Which we all know is a very lucky number, at least at the craps table.

Seven states would address a lot of the current political gridlock. I know how hard it is for three people to decide upon a movie. It’s no wonder 100 Senators and 538 Congresspeople can’t get anything done. But if you reduce the number of states to 7 (an 86% reduction for all you cost-cutting advocates out there!) you’re down to 14 Senators and 76 Congresspeople. Much more manageable. Plus, you could rent out all the extra office space in the Capitol Building, bringing in some serious coin.

You may be asking, “John, how could you possibly combine 50 states, each with its own unique identity and nickname, into 7 states?” I’m glad you asked. Let me tell you.

First off, let me say right up front I’m not going to get into the technical, boring details. As President I’d appoint a team to do the grunt work. My job is to lead and reorganize. And maybe think of really cool new state names. Here’s the plan.

New State # 1
Combine all of New England (there’s six states up thar yonder way) with New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and, if they absolutely insist, Delaware. Truthfully, I’d be in favor of setting Delaware adrift. I, for one, am tired of their snotty “We were the first state” attitude. Delaware may have been the first state, but did you ever try to drive through it on a Saturday? ‘Nuff said. (10 states)

New State # 2
Smash the remaining mid-Atlantic and southeastern states together into a giant mass of humidity. That takes care of Maryland, Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida. (6 states)

New State # 3
Staying southish I propose combining Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, Tennessee and Kentucky. Once that’s done erect a 20 foot tall electric fence around this new state, remind them of their right to bear arms (as if reminding were needed), encourage abundant moon shining, then sit back and enjoy the show. (6 states)

New State # 4
Scooting up to what we lovingly now refer to as The Rust Belt conjoin West Virginia, Michigan, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois. To help give it a more homey feel add in Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa and Missouri and you’ve got one big corroded, cheesy, mosquito infested mess. (9 states)

So far we’ve reduced 31 states down to 4. Not bad, right?

New State # 5
Take the center of the country and squoosh it into a huge blob of emptiness where the Coen Brothers can roam freely. This encompasses the Dakotas, Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming and Montana. (10 states)

New State # 6
Ahhh, the Far West. Where men are men and a cup of decaf cappuccino cost six bucks; where you’ve got stunning natural wonders like the Snake River Canyon, Crater Lake and the cast of Grey’s Anatomy; where the grunge attitude collides with the surfer dude mentality to form a whole new dynamic called Gruffer. Say goodbye to Idaho, Utah, Arizona, Nevada, Washington, Oregon and California! (7 states)

New State # 7
Hawaii. Why spoil a good thing?

You may notice Alaska doesn’t make the cut. Yes, I know that it’s beautiful and full of oil, but I’m still pretty pissed about the whole Sarah Palin thing, so the entire state will be made to pay. Maybe it doesn’t seem fair to punish 710,000 Alaskans for the antics of 1, but the way I see it those 710,000 Alaskans propped up that 1. So they’re complicit.

Although this plan makes plenty of sense to me I realize it’s probably a hard sell to the rest of the country. As far as getting elected, this alone is most likely a deal breaker. But I’m not concerned. I have a solution for that too. I’d insist we ditch the whole antiquated 18^th century “election” thing and simply appoint me President for Life. Or at least President Until It Bores Me.