Almost a week ago now, She Who Must be Obeyed decamped to Florida. That left me, for the first time in ages, in total charge of the government of this House, and gave me a chance to deconstruct the oppressive administrative state under which I had been suffocating.
I began by signing several executive orders repealing long-standing, senseless regulations. It is now okay, for example, to leave the toilet seat in the up position, for the convenience of the male member of the household, so to speak. Eating ice cream directly from the carton, for hours at a time, is perfectly acceptable. Portion control, especially where steaks and french fries are concerned, is a thing of the past. Having a beer for breakfast, or declaring happy hour to be any hour that appears on a clock, are now deregulated practices. If any of these practices have serious side effects, I don’t know about them, and if I don’t know about them they cannot possibly hurt me.
I will admit that, especially on the first few nights, I experienced a few bouts of midnight nausea and early-morning headaches. Such is the price of freedom.
This is, after all, what the American people — well, at least male American people — have been yearning for, for these many years: a chance to let their inner slob run free. Political correctness has robbed us of our pride, not to mention our natural odor and our butchering skills. So it is a great relief to have no controls once again. You know, like when we were pre-teenagers.
Dirty clothes go anywhere. Dirty dishes pile up in and near the sink, dining room, living room and bedroom. Dust bunnies swirl across the floors like tumbleweeds in a Texas windstorm. Stereo and TV volume controls are set on “stun” and stay there, while the dusty drum set gets dragged out and pounded to within an inch of its life. (Although this brought an intrusion from the Judicial Branch of home government — the neighbors called the cops. Turns out that “if the head of the House does it, it’s legal” does not apply outside the House. Either.)
The one big project I always intended to do if I ever got possession of the House for long enough was to build a soundproof no-girls-allowed man-cave tree-house with a wet bar — and get Mexico to pay for it. Unbelievably, the project got vetoed by the bank, the neighbors, and She Who Must Be Obeyed.
Who returns tomorrow.
So the dishwasher, clothes washer, vacuum cleaner and shower are all running non stop. I haven’t had a drink in an hour, and tonight it’s a sensible dinner and early bedtime. Tomorrow it’s back to a life of rules, manners, restraints, proscriptions, order and cleanliness. No longer President of the House, I will have to content myself once again with being just the Loyal Opposition, complaining vociferously about the administrative state.
What a blessed relief.