The President of the United States of America loves bunnies. He is a kind man, with a heart swollen to the size of Barry Bonds after all his steroids, except the President has no need for artificial enhancements.
Bunnies, according to the Leader of the Free World, deserve to live just like any person. Maybe they have an even greater deservedness than some humans. The President believes that the life of a bunny is worth 37% more than the life of a human. He is continually horrified at the loss of baby bunnies due to extreme weather, lack of food, and at the hands of a wily coyote. That this is allowed to happen, in the Greatest County on Earth, is beyond his comprehension. Baby bunnies need to live, so that they can bring joy into an otherwise gray, featureless Earth.
When the cameras are off, when he can hide from the peering eyes of a nation, the President weeps. For every baby bunny who dies, he sheds a single tear. He weeps openly and plainly, out of grief and frustration. So many lost bunnies are due to circumstance. “Natural selection,” as one scientist puts it. But the President does not believe in Science. He believes in Belief.
The President’s wife, a former librarian, is a disciplined woman with a hard stare, and a long, rough physique obtained by years of self-starvation and meticulous neglect. She has no empathy for her husband. He is, in her deep-set eyes, a weak man in need of the right book to set him back on course. She will no longer listen to him speak of the “horrible injustice of it all”, the way the world seems “set against baby bunnies from Day One.”
When the President begins one of his near-daily monologues, the First Lady will calmly call for aid and watch in silence as he is dragged into a secret closet just to the right of the War Room. There he must stay until the torrent of emotion passes. Sometimes this takes hours, sometimes longer. Many of his long “vacations” are not spent in the sunny hills of Texas, but rather the stuffy confines of this closet.
It is said that in early 2001, the maids and groundskeepers believed the White House to be haunted by the ghost of Richard Nixon. They could hear the wailing of a man wracked with pity by something inexplicably large and unyielding. Never did they suspect that the current Commander in Chief was the one who made such a racket. Eventually word spread, whispered words spoken behind doors and in the shadows of those giant White House pillars, that the President felt the pain of every baby bunny who died before its time.
The responsibility of steering a country is a daunting one for even the strongest of men. We must feel fortunate that, at least with this current President, we have a man who cares so much for our unfortunate fluffy friends. One hopes that, with the election coming up next year, we can select a person (woman or man) who has a fraction of the feeling of our current leader.
He is a man who loves bunnies.