We could be heroes just for one day.
Enough about you.
You know what I want? I don’t want to be president. Presidents have to ask Congress for things. I want to be a constitutional dictator. Not like a banana republic tyrant—no, no—I want the legal kind. The kind Carl Schmitt daydreamed about in his leather-bound notebooks. The kind Clinton Rossiter said was cool as long as it's temporary—like a Snapchat.
I want to be the Decider. Not a guy who makes decisions. That’s for middle management. I want to decide reality. I want the kind of power where I point at Article II and suddenly everyone’s wearing togas and reading Cicero by candlelight.
Helen Andrews will write about me like I’m Hadrian with a better haircut. Christopher Caldwell will say I saved the country from the Age of Entitlement—and all it cost was some due process and a few hundred thousand bureaucrats. Worth it.
Because I'm tired of living in an age where everyone’s entitled—except me. Where my ex-girlfriend’s therapist gets a say, but I can’t even get a damn Shabbos dinner invite unless I RSVP with a net worth. I want the kind of power where girls swipe right retroactively. Where money chases me down alleys like I owe it child support.
And when people say, “That sounds authoritarian,” I’ll say: “No, no—this is an erotic state of exception. I suspend your rights with consensual energy.” Because it’s not fascism if it’s hot, right?
I want my face on coins before I'm dead. I want CNN to say, “Today, Supreme Leader Luke summoned the Senate for a hug.” And if they refuse, I’ll just Schmitt the Constitution until it obeys.
So yeah—make me the Dictator. Not forever. Just long enough to make the trains run on time, abolish HOA fees, and make everyone pretend to care about Western Civilization again. Then I’ll step down. Probably. Unless Helen Andrews writes me hot enough.
