I thought it was a joke at first, but then I remembered the abysmal and surreal state of American politics so I knew it had to be true, and it is. Ladies and gentleman, brothers and sisters, comrades and friends (Hitchens quote), get ready for your next president of the United States: The Rock.
If ya smeeeeeee–wait, what? The fuckin who?
That’s right. Evidently, unsatisfied with merely being the laughingstock of the planet, the White House is attempting to reach intergalactic levels of embarrassment. The fuckin Rock is supposedly throwing his elbow pad into the ring for the 2020 race, and what’s worse, people are diggin’ it. Some even actually think it’s a good idea. I haven’t seen one person do a spit take at the suggestion. Nobody’s even laughing. I guess because the silliest presidential election fantasy one could conjure couldn’t possibly be any more absurd than the horrifying reality we’re currently enduring under the Orange Menace.
Think about it. At least The Rock’s cabinet picks couldn’t be any worse. You’d have Sgt. Slaughter as Secretary of Defense, Owen Hart in charge of the safety commission, and Jake the Snake Roberts as head of the DEA. All the Rock would need is the Ultimate Warrior as his speech writer and he’d be all set.
Crimminy. Remember when the presidency was dignified? When it was a noble office to hold? Before Trump and Snookie and Honey Boo Boo or whatever other fuckfaced reality wannabe’s soiled it forever? Remember when there were candidates you really believed in? Well get ready to remember again.
I hereby nominate everybody’s favorite team owner, Mark Cuban, to run as the next president of the United States. Sorry Rockets fans, but you stink.
Why Cuban, you ask? Why the fuck not Cuban? Any sorta normal qualifications we all thought were required to run for president have clearly been thrown the fuck out the window. And Cuban is actually what a lot of the people who voted for Trump thought they were getting: a genius, down-to-earth, wildly successful businessman.
Remember all that white noise (in more ways than one) during the campaign that head-scratchingly labeled Trump as the “Blue-collar billionaire”? Even though he was born with a silver spoon up his twat, had never worked a fuckin day in his rich, spoiled life, and had completely fucked over and cheated every employee, investor, and business partner he ever had during his endless shady business dealings? Trump’s about as blue-collar as King Tut. Cuban on the other hand is an actual self-made billionaire.
He grew up in Pittsburgh, the son of a car re-upholsterer. A few years after graduating Indiana Universtiy and the Kelley School of Business, he started his own company, Microsolutions. They integrated systems. Exactly. I don’t know what the fuck that is either. What I do know is in 1990, he sold the company for about six million smackeroos, and walked away with two mill for himself. Boom. I’m in the money, Cuban thought, I’m officially retired.
Five years later Cuban and an old college buddy were lamenting not being able to get all the Indiana basketball games on TV since they lived in Texas. Say hello to the birth of live streaming. Within a year, Cuban and his buddy’s new company was worth thirteen million dollars. In 1999, Cuban sold the company to Yahoo! for 5.7 billion in stock. Cha-fuckin-ching.
Now the dude’s richer than he ever thought he’d be in his wildest dreams. He’s got an assload of stock, and he says to himself, “I don’t need any more money. I’m gonna sell.” All his friends and fellow investors told him he was a fool. The profits were rising with no end in sight, why the hell would he want to sell now? Why not be greedy fuckwads like them?
To make a long story a bit longer, he sold his stock. This happened to be a little after 2000, when unbeknownst to everyone, a little thing called the stock market bubble was about to burst. And burst it did, all up in the face of the people who didn’t sell like Cuban. Hundreds of millions of dollars were flushed down the toilet overnight. Cuban meanwhile, because of his lack of greed, didn’t lose a nickel. “Forbes” magazine called it one of the top ten greatest deals in Wall St. history. Or something like that. I heard Cuban explain it in an interview once, I just can’t remember the exact recognition it got. Either way, the dude’s obviously no dummy.
So then what does the slick muthafucka do? Six months after Cuban initially sold to Yahoo!, and in true blue-collar fashion, he went and bought his favorite sports team. How fuckin cool is that? Every blue collar cat I know would want to do that. After grade school, once you realize that you’re not going pro in anything other than some shitty nine-to-five, your ultimate sports fantasy shifts to the idea of ownership. Imagine all the phat shit you could do…
And that’s what Cuban has done. He’s been the best owner to play for in any sport for over fifteen years now. He always hooks his players up more than he has to. They have the illest, most state-of-the-art locker room in pro sports. Cuban runs his team like the owner with a heart of gold. He’s loyal to a fault. The muthafucka won’t even trade thousand year-old Dirk Nowitzki because he’s so damn loyal (If only the goddamn Celtics felt that way about Paul Pierce). Cuban’s known Dirk since the big Nazi was nineteen, and Dirk won him a championship. That’s all Cuban needs to know about where his loyalty lies, and that’s a rare thing in sports these days. I mean loyalty, players bought Cuban milks at lunch. That’s the kind of stand-up guy I want running the country.
Trump’s supporters during the campaign pointed to the hope that he would run the country like he ran his businesses. Well, he is. Running it into the ground, while he alone keeps all the money and walks away unscathed. I want Cuban to run the country like he ran his franchise: turning an underdog into a winner against all odds.
So in 2020, get ready for Cuban vs. Pence for the presidency. It will have to be Pence after all, because of course by then Trump will have long-since been impeached, executed, and dumped in the ocean like Bin Laden.