Get rich by running for president
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As a member of the 99 percent, I never cease to be amazed at how the wealthy and successful get that way. My World War II-era parents filled my head with a lot of fatuous nonsense about staying in school, doing my work well and playing by the rules.
I know. In this day and age, that verges on child abuse.
There are now much better ways of getting into the private-jet set. The path is not smooth nor easy, and sacrifice is required. But the rewards go potentially far beyond a modest home, a car that runs and the prospect of a condo in Florida at the edge of a swamp.
All you have to do is run for president.
Now, OK, that involves a lot of fundraising and investment in a custom-painted bus and lots of flag pins and stuff, but hear me out.
You never have to actually BE president. That's one of those jobs that sounds fun at first but no sane person wants, like being Uma Thurman's stunt double. Look what it does to the guys who get it: On Inauguration Day we see an attractive, smiling middle-aged man, and four to eight years later he's Andy Rooney.
But what if you just pretend to run for president? Like Kim Kardashian pretending to get married, you are exhaustively interviewed about what you're planning, where you'll go and what you'll do for your sponsors. You get all the attention, all the publicity, the freebies, fuss and toadying, all the adulation and good wishes - but then you bail before having to face years of whining and criticism about the promises you're not keeping and how you're spending too much money on stupid things we don't need, like Europe.
When you're a famous ... uh ... hot chick and pretend to get married, you collect a lot of money for having your picture taken. When you're pretending to run for president, you collect a lot of donations from people who believe the things you say (even if they have the historical accuracy of "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure") and enjoy the stirring music and amber waves of grain in your commercials.
And guess what? When you decide, after much prayer and consultation with your family, that you should stop running for president, you don't have to give that money back. Or donate it to charity. You get to keep it. The only rule is that you can't spend it for personal use; you can't buy yourself a Lamborghini or a volcanic island lair with missiles and martial-arts-expert henchmen.
Unless you start a PAC and call the henchmen "consultants."
The first thing you're going to want to do is write a book about your remarkable life and inspiring vision for America. You probably developed that during your campaign by measuring which catchphrases and sound bites got you the most TV coverage.
If the book's a turkey and is trending on Amazon somewhere below "The Encyclopedia of Croutons," your PAC can buy up copies. You can't collect royalties on those sales because that would be personal profit, but now you've written a best-seller!
Your PAC also can donate funds to another candidate you like, and that candidate will then owe you. One hand washes the other; why feel dirty?
But the best part is that as a best-selling author, kingmaker and creator of jobs in the henching - er, consulting - industry, you can cash in your photogenic, well-recognized face for sky-high speaking fees. You can generally make a nuisance of yourself, blowing smoke in the public eye, right up until you get caught doing something or someone illicit. (And you will.)
You'll suffer through a news cycle of disgrace. Then you can write another book!
That's it. I'm knocking off for the holidays and forming an exploratory committee. Don't worry; I'm not serious.
I'm deadly serious about that.
First Published December 15, 2011 12:00 am
