The Charlie Bravo Story

The Bull Dog Party

What a circus, and not the good kind; the Democrat presidential “stand outs” are standing down like the French when Hitler advanced on Paris. Meanwhile, the impeachment proceedings over in the Romper Room, er, the House of Representatives has devolved into “I know you are but what am I?”. And anyway, why do they call it an imPEACHment when they spend all of their time throwing rotten tomatoes? And how effective do they actually think that they’re going to be, lobbing an orange vegetable at the president? If they do occasionally make a direct hit, will it even show up against that spray-on tan? These are the kind of things that bounce around inside my brain when dad and I are out on the motorcycle.

Well, I’ve had enough; I am officially throwing my collar into the ring; not necessarily as a candidate, as that would imply that the other pontificating windbags are worthy of consideration at all; I think that I shall just take over from here. Dad says I have to go through the whole political process by declaring my party affiliation, and suggested that “Independent” defines me perfectly.

Well, dad doesn’t think these things through; doesn’t he remember that the last Independent candidate that actually had any impact was H. Ross Perot? I understand dad’s identifying with a short megalomaniac, but I choose to go a different route. The last time a third party candidate had a legitimate shot at actually winning an election was when Theodore Roosevelt formed the Bull Moose party; although I appreciate his great contributions towards developing the National Park system, I’m going to have to “one-up” old Teddy…

…so I am creating the “Bull Dog” party.

My first act as president after my unavoidable victory in the general election is to laugh at everyone that didn’t vote for me. Then I’m going to laugh at all those that did, as what were they thinking? Because now I HAVE THE POWER! I will be changing the title of president to that of Her Royal Highness and Benevolent Dictator, Champion of the Underdog and Despoiler of the Oval Office.

Or Charlie Khan, on days I’m feeling magnanimous.

I hereby decree that all meetings with foreign dignitaries shall be preceded by an Ear Rubbing ceremony, as that’s what I like. But I will never engage in this ritual with Barrack Obama or Prince Charles, as they have so much more real estate to cover, and there is no way that I’m going to be caught dead continuing to rub theirs when they have finished rubbing mine.

And concerning the division between the two remaining political parties; there will be no “reaching across the aisle”, as there will be no aisle. Every session of Congress shall begin with a rousing game of musical chairs, with Cody Jinks and the Tone Deaf Hippies providing the tunes. I can’t wait to see a wad of overfed politicians scrambling for a seat until Cody drops the beat, resulting in the Republicrats and Demoplicans being scattered hither and yon around the Senate chambers. This way any pouting and posturing party-poopers who refuse to stand and applaud during one of my State of the Nation addresses will be obscured from the press by the mass of my supporters surrounding them.

I’m always thinking ahead…

And speaking of the press: I am going to appoint Greta Thunberg as my press secretary, as one glance from those anger-filled eyes of hers will shut down any inane questions that I find presumptuous or self-promoting. This will have a two-fold benefit, as her time spent behind the podium is time not spent traipsing around the globe lecturing others on climate change while expanding her own considerable carbon footprint. And how do I keep Greta in check should she decide to go off the rails? Two words: shock collar. This way press conferences will be both abrupt AND entertaining.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

I will help pay down the national debt by renting out the White House for social functions and/or pickleball tournaments, as it will be empty anyway. I choose to remain domiciled here in Arkansas at the Casa del Whackos, as I find all of that frippery and fol-de-rol in Washington a bit off-putting; any visiting carpetbaggers, er, lobbyists will then get a chance to experience a slice of life in flyover country, maybe even let the mountain air of the Ozarks clear their thinking a bit.

Any governmental operations that I personally deem redundant shall be immediately shelved and their buildings repurposed as animal shelters, veterans treatment centers and Popeye’s Chicken franchises. Some may accuse me of pandering to my base, but as is so often the case, I just don’t care what such negative people think; I am The Charles.

I hereby appoint as my personal security detail two serious K9 officers that dad met yesterday over in North Little Rock; Officers Jax and Jared, a pair of Belgian Malinois. If any would take issue with this choice, voicing accusations of foreign influence in my inner circle of advisors, I suggest that you take it up with them directly, as you will find them very persuasive. And direct. They don’t play, unless there is a ball or pull rope involved, then it’s ON!!! More on these stud muffins later…

Dad shall maintain his position as the Official Chauffer of the Charkstream and Provider of Snacks.

Anyway, I have a dream. One in which hateful speech against anyone who doesn’t have the same opinion as the accuser is prosecuted to the same degree as any racial, ethnic, or religious pejorative as “hatespeech”, as one is every bit as divisive and mean-spirited as the other. One where we are truly not separated by the color of our respective skins, or even by the BREED OF THE DOG, but by the content of our character as exhibited by our actions. One where you don’t criticize a person until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes…

Because then you’re a mile away before he realizes that you have his shoes.

Brought to you by the Charlie Bravo for Supreme Overlord coalition; this message approved by Her Highness and financed by the sale of her book and calendars.

Charke Diem!

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