“Shall we check what the vanguard of the lumpen proletariat are telling the trampled underfoot?” Lance asked, pointing at the truck’s radio.
“NPR?” asked Kitty. Lance nodded. “Why not?”
An egghead professor from an Ivy League school was yammering on about how Trump should be impeached for his handling of the crisis. “Every President should be impeached halfway through their first term,” Lance told the egghead, who could not hear him, and would not listen even if he could, because egghead professors don’t listen to what kids say, unless they are conducting funded studies.
“Yeah?” asked Kitty. “The impeachment process should start simultaneously with the inauguration?”
“Yes. Sorta,” Lance replied. “Actually, it should be built into the electoral process. A referendum on the presidency should be held along with the mid-term elections.”
Kitty didn’t have to ponder it before agreeing. “You’re rigt. It would draw more people to the ballot booths, which are operating anyway, so just one more ballot to check. It wouldn’t add any cost to the process.”
“It would require a constitutional amendment, but who would dare oppose it? Who is going to stand up and say we don’t need more democracy?”
Kitty laughed, “Fascinating. The people who pull the strings don’t want more democracy. They want far less, obviously. But how could they possibly say that? Here’s the analogy. You buy a slice of pizza for a buck. And the seller offers you another one for free. Who’s not gonna take it?”
“Close, but not quite. The puppet masters will say it’s unhealthy to eat two slices, and they’ll pay off all sorts of think tanks to back that up with all sorts of gobbledygook.”
“Well, then they would, in fact, be arguing that democracy is not good for you. But I take your point, so forget the pizza slice, and say it’s a bottle of pure, 100% organic orange juice.”
“Sold!” Lance shouted.
“It ends the whole impeachment farce. How much was pissed away trying to impeach Trump, when it was foregone conclusion that it would not get past the Senate? The whole thing was charade that taxpayers had to shell out for. With a mid-term referendum, we can remove any President ourselves, at no cost to ourselves. To Hell with leaving it in the hands of politicians. Power to the people.”
“It also means Presidential candidates have to be very careful about who they pick as running mates.”
“Because if the people say, ‘Throw the bum out,’ the VP moves into the Oval Office?”
“That’s beautiful,” Kitty said. “And the President would never know, for sure, if the VP is plotting against him, with a bi-partisan cabal.”
“No. But the President would always suspect it. The President would also have to be very scrupulous about going back on election promises, because voters are going to remember more of what happened in the past two years than they will of what happened in the past four years. No honeymoon period. Stand and be judged every two years.”
As the flatbed Ford passed another 18 wheeler full of toilet paper, Kitty pointed at its cabin and asked, “Do you think he would be opposed to such a sinister scheme to bring more democracy, more accountability to the Oval Office?”
Lance rolled down his window, said, “Let’s ask him,” and proceeded to try. The trucker looked at Lance, saw him saying something, then put his eyes back on the road. “You may need to get his attention.”
Kitty laughed, accelerated until she completed the pass, hiked her shirt up to her neck, and told Lance to take the wheel. Kitty turned around, and flashed the trucker, who responded by giving a couple long tugs on his air horn. She took the wheel again, moved back into the passing lane, and slowed until they were parallel once more.
The laughing trucker rolled his window down, and shouted, “Thanks for the show! What can I do for you kids?”
Lance shouted back, “We are conducting a poll. Do you think we should pass a constitutional amendment to put in place a mid-term referendum on the Presidency?”
The crestfallen tracker yelled, “Damn, I was hoping you were wanting to pull over to get to know me a little better. Well, your girlfriend, I mean, that is.”
The boy who would be King, Lance, son of Stephen, not Lance, laughed, and yelled “Sorry, no. But if you answer the question, we’ll give you her mother’s phone number. She lives in St. Paul.”
Kitty laughed hysterically, as did the tucker, who pulled on his air horn, and bellowed, “Deal! What was the question, again?” Lance laid out the proposition once more, to which the trucker yelled, “Hell yeah. More democracy. It’s the American way. Throw the bums out!”
Lance gave the trucker a thumb up, said thanks, and started to roll the window back up, but not before the trucker could yell, “Hey! What about that phone number?”
“It wouldn’t do you any good,” Lance yelled, “She’s a lesbian.” The trucker laughed, and pulled his air horn one more time, as Kitty jammed the pedal to the metal, and left him in her dust.
“There you have it,” Kitty said. “The people have spoken. Throw the bums out!”