America, Do Me A Solid: Tolerate Trump Five More Days

A Plea From The Ghost of William Henry Harrison

Kate Washington
The Belladonna Comedy

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Big Willie Style. WHH’s fur stole game was on POINT.

Hey there, William Henry Harrison here. Remember me? Sure you do. Long face, sharp widow’s peak, jug ears? Whig president (yeah, Whig, I’m old school) elected in 1840? The Tippecanoe in “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too”? Campaign logo was a log cabin and hard cider?

Still not ringing a bell? Okay, here’s the most memorable thing about me: I had the shortest presidency in history. Yep, I died after 32 days in office, of pneumonia, after my outdoor inauguration in March 1841. This is literally my only claim to fame.

Why am I going on about this? Well, I haven’t been paying very close attention to what’s been going on in America in recent decades. I’ve been content with a monument near Cincinnati to my very short presidency and my long career of public service (which, let’s be real, in the first half of the 19th century was a euphemism for genocide against Native Americans, which I did a lot of during my military days — that’s what the Tippecanoe thing was all about).

Somehow, this gentleman, who I fought at Tippecanoe, was not ultimately responsible for my death (all visual cues to the contrary). A common cold was. Grrrr, Mondays!

A few years back, there was a Parks and Rec episode named for me, which was a heartwarming surprise. Long story short, for the last 176 years, I’ve felt extremely secure in my place in the history books. Nobody leaves office in less than a month.

All that changed when the media started digging into Donald J. Trump’s Russian ties.

I come from a turbulent political time myself. I get it: A populist president gets power on a wave of dismaying mob sentiment, there’s unrest, people get anxious. I saw it all with Andrew Jackson. Heck, I ran a racist campaign appealing to the lowest common denominator myself — that’s what the log cabin and massacring Indians were for.

And seriously, Russia seems super messed up. (What happened there? In my day it was a snowy absolutist backwater. I mean, it was great Russia stopped Napoleon with its vast icy steppes but that’s about the last time we thought about them, foreign-policy-wise.)

I want you to sweep the leg.

I didn’t get worried until Republican senators started calling for an investigation. My buddy Dick Nixon called me up — he’s nervous too. He’s got a reputation to protect: only guy ever to resign the presidency, plus a strong contender for Most Scandal-Ridden. So Dick told me to check out what’s going on.

Sockgate, one of the lesser-known 20th century scandals.

And I started reading the news and it just kept coming. As my onetime running mate John Tyler could tell you, life comes at you fast. (So, I found, does death.)

I get that this man needs to be removed from office — did you hear his latest presser? Hoo boy. Henry Clay would be apoplectic hearing what passes for oratory in this millennium. But. How about if you — media, intelligence community, everyone — just stop, breathe, and consider for a few minutes. Or days. Maybe exactly five days. That would get us to the 33-day mark of the presidency.

I’m not asking much. Just hold any further insane, bombshell revelations until after the weekend.

That gets Trump past 32 days and secures my role in history. I mean, there’s no way you people will ever again elect somebody more scandal-ridden and incompetent than this bozo. And now that you have antibiotics, presidents aren’t so likely to die. So, media, slow your roll. Intelligence community, plug the leaks for a few. I’d be very grateful, and so would the Guinness Book of World Records, historical-monument maintainers, the publishers of history books, and probably also the producers of Parks and Rec.

Knope/Swanson 2020. Or at this rate, Knope/Swanson 3/17.

I understand if you can’t. I do have one thing as solace. Even if this presidency crumbles tomorrow, I’ll always be the last POTUS born as a British subject. Trump can’t take that away from me.

Kate Washington is a writer (essays, food, recipes) and editor. Words in Avidly, Sunset, the Sacramento Bee, McSweeney’s, The Toast, Brain, Child, and more. kawashington.com

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Writer and editor. Dining critic, the Sacramento Bee. Words in Avidly, Sunset, McSweeney’s, The Toast, Brain, Child, and more. kawashington.com