Stop the Presses column by Chris Graham
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I can’t imagine what it’s like to run for president.
OK, I can.
I’m running for city council in my hometown, and I did so knowing full well what could end up happening.
“C’mon, people like me, respect me. No way this one ends up in the gutter.”
Ahem.
I’ve had stuff said about me that I wouldn’t say about Judas Iscariot, none of it true.
I’m a puppet for a political machine. I’m disrespectful. I don’t actually live where I say I do.
We’re four-plus weeks away from Election Day. I’m sure by we get to that point, I will be sprouting a tail and horns at night and half the day, molesting barnyard animals and sympathizing with Osama bin Laden.
I bring this up not because I’m having so much fun having my character and good name dragged through the mud.
Indeed, quite the blast I am having here. Oh, yeah.
No, I bring it up because …
I can’t imagine what it’s like to run for president.
You have a friend who’s a lobbyist, and the nation’s leading daily newspaper makes it out to be a near-adulterous affair.
Your pastor says things about white folks, and you either throw him under the bus, or get thrown there yourself.
Your husband is named Bill Clinton. Insert Favorite Bill Clinton Can’t Keep His Pants Up And Buttoned Joke here.
(OK, mine: What does Bill say to Hillary after sex? “Be home in 20 minutes.” Hahahahahaha.)
But seriously …
It’s not supposed to get to you. I know that I’ve asked elected leaders from Waynesboro to Washington how they deal with the paparazzi-like scrutiny that they get, and all but a few of them tell me that they shrug it off.
I don’t know that I want to develop skin that thick.
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