If I were President, I’d require all Florida colleges to sell Mickey Mouse ears college merch. Florida should just be renamed Disney World. Not only would it be good for tourism, but it’d bring a sense of vibrancy and optimism to everyday living in Florida, as every Floridian is now living in the most magical place on Earth.

I’d convince the National Sandwich Committee to finally declare the hotdog a sandwich. It’s a battle I’ve been fighting for many years now. Not one of pure belief that the hot dog should be considered a sandwich, but out of childish (yet admirable due to my enduring persistence I hope) stubbornness. Once achieved, I will finally be able to sleep at night, knowing that I was right.

My secret service men would not only be well-trained and well-versed in combat, security, and the artful skill of looking mysterious and intimidating, but every time the President of Mexico or the Prime Minister of Sweden or the Mayor of Whoville visits, they’d put on a musical theater show. Their sunglasses double as headbands, keeping their bangs out of their faces as they pirouette and do backflips across the stage. Diplomatic relations improve as our artistic productions depict global issues through new and eye-opening perspectives.   

Our cultural landscape evolves and deepens like a Louisiana gumbo that’s been on the stove for a couple of hours. Switch the channel to White House TV and find reruns of comedic procedural shows. Find the new international version of The Bachelor. Find a remake of Bridget Jones’s Diary 1,2, and 3 with a new diversified cast. Mindy Kaling can produce it, and in honor of her valiant service, I shall award her with the Presidential Medal of Freedom. I randomly tweet it one day, and try to prevent myself from spoiling the surprise to her during our weekend brunch with Oprah, Spiderman, the Fab Five from Queer Eye, and Will Smith.

I will hold a moon rock in my hand. The moon rock will be proven radioactive. I will gain superpowers and become America’s first superhero president. I can fly, shoot heat rays from my eyes, and produce bubbles when I burp. On my off days, I fly around the country, picking up college students late for exams to class, and pregnant women about to have their babies to local hospitals. Neither student nor mother would have to worry about college loans or health care bills, because scientists discovered the bubbles I burp can be used as a new renewable energy source.

My new role as defender of the Earth has predictably provoked some supervillains, enemies who, with the help of my political opponents (can’t please everyone), have collected samples of the moon’s atmosphere. Breathing in moon dust, they gain powers akin to mine. I fight “The Wall” (no relation to “The Rock”), although it doesn’t really do much besides waste my time. ¨Contamination¨ threatens to poison the entire nation, while “Super Corp” exploits those threats to retail an anecdote at outrageous prices. In the future, the world almost ends. Oceans are completely acidic, cities are flooded, and wildfires spread. My darkest, most hopeless, moment looms in the distance.

I’ve got 12 years to create some better change.     

Coerced in a fight for the future of our nation, we battle over economic policy, immigration law, and whether Moonlight or La La Land deserved that Best Picture Oscar. Who wins alternates until the day we all die because apparently radioactive moon dust cannot cure old age.

I will probably never become President. I don’t care for professionalism, and just thinking of having to be ready for a camera all the time and to not have a hair out of place is tiring. I wouldn’t know how to live with myself if I’ve made the wrong decision. I can’t be responsible for millions of people. I can barely be responsible for myself.

But doesn’t my fantasy presidency sound as good as the next?