Once you’re done being US President, I think they should kill you. You get four or eight years to kill anyone you want, destroy entire countries at will, throw around billions of dollars at whatever cretinous idea catches your fancy—but once it’s all done, once the White House dog’s being carried away by helicopter and the next guy is giving his inauguration speech, the Secret Service should ferry you down to a cosy underground bunker, a nice little room, a kind of Presidential man-cave, decorated with pictures of you golfing, shaking hands at a G7 summit, meeting the Pope. A few old campaign posters. Remember what it felt like to win? That rush? The Secret Service guys bring you a hamburger and a cool, refreshing glass of Coke, and once you’ve eaten your limbs start feeling heavier. There’s a sofa; maybe you should just lie down. You did well, didn’t you? You made it: the most important person in the world. Don’t you deserve a rest? Afterwards, they’ll build a modest statue of you overlooking the National Mall, with your ashes inside, and small creeping vines, which know nothing about politics, for whom every human is just a lump of nutrients, will climb slowly up your feet.
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