My friend Sarah Jane Pipkins said a President is worth a lot but can only get a job if we all hold up our hand when she calls out a name. She said that a President gets to say who goes where and buys what. The citizens, she says that is us, give the President a great, big, spectacular, humongous house that is painted white. It even has a bowling alley and theater inside.
If the President doesn’t have a dog, someone should leave one, two, or maybe three in the yard. Sarah Jane Pipkins said we should name them Prez II, Ralph, and Sue. I wanted to name them Tippy, Todd, and Tater Roo, but Sarah Jane Pipkins said I do not get to choose.
I asked, “Sarah Jane Pipkins who appointed you to decide that I can or not take on that special task?” She looked at me, squinted her eyes, snorted from her nose and just walked away. So I hereby declare that those frisky, cold-nose, curious, tail-waggers shall be called Tippy, Todd, and Tater Roo if in fact they should find their way around that really tall guard.
Maybe a cat or two should decorate the oval office. Oval? Why would a room be oval? Square for sure; maybe round, or rectangular. But oval seems so out of the ordinary.
My teacher said that every four years some men and women decide they want to be President but first they have to run. I do not know how far. I do not know how long. I do not know why they cannot walk fast, bike, or take a bus. My teacher is extra smart and never lets me down. But I bet those people are awfully tired when they finally get to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D. C.
I think I could be President because my legs run. They stretch waaaay out front and so faaaar back that I can barely see my heels. When I go fast, every time my foot touches the ground and my body springs up, my brain cheers. “Keep going, feet. Hey, right foot! No twinkle toes in this race. Are you here to win or not? Left? Left? Listen up. Pay attention. Pick up your toes or you are going to squash your nose. Go! Go! Go! Good job, feet. Good job!”
When my left heel kisses the dirt, my right foot begins to elevate. My body has a run rhythm. Hump, fump. Hump, fump, fump. Hump, fump. Wind blows against my face and I feel it force me back. I push harder and harder. Hump, fump, fump. Hump, fump.
When I get to the mansion, I will softly step into the Green Room because it is a serious environment. Shhhhhhhh! It is where a President declared the first United States war. Afterward, I will skip to the Blue Room to check out who might be getting married. From there I will jet through the small Red Room on my way to the East and West Rooms.
I do not understand why Mr. Hoban, the builder of this grand monumental place, did not put a skating rink at the bottom of these one hundred and thirty-two rooms. If he had, the President would never need to wear shoes, walk, or run; and could just roll, pivot, and zoom. That would save a lot of time unless of course, there was a boom. Uhmph! Ouch. “Okay. Which one of you left that dog bone on the floor? Tippy? Todd? Tater Roo was it you?”
If I lived with the President I would eat chocolate donuts every single day. On Saturday we would have chocolate mash potatoes covered with raisin chocolate gravy. On Sunday, I would eat chocolate covered boiled eggs topped with chocolate whipping cream. I would have so much lemon aid we would keep it in the swimming pool. I would invite all the children to swim with me sometime in May, and serve them green oranges, purple bananas, and yellow and black polka-dot coconuts. Yum.
If you come to visit me at the President’s house, I will show you a friendly mouse. You might think him a bit silly but he is a likeable sort. Although he spends most of his time scampering around with his needle point nose toward the floor, he is smart because he never gets caught sleeping on the davenport.
I am going to run for President, I am. Definitely, for sure. Sarah Jane Pipkins said that first I have to announce. I will, too, as soon as I can figure out what it is that Sarah Jane Pipkins is talking about.
© Coninc, TheBackyardKids.com, Short Stories For Short Folk (Library of Congress 1-147158261, pending)