Prez's Porsche

I get no rest from these people. I mean, come on, all I do is buy a Porsche, and the news is splattered all over the papers and the news? What’s that about?

Hey, just because I’m the President doesn’t mean any little thing I do gets scrutinized.   I’m entitled to at least a tiny-weeny bit of privacy, ain’t I? Which is why, when I buy a sports-car that most people in the first world can only dream of touching (and most people in my country don’t even know how to pronounce), that is my own business and only mine.   Y’all hear me?

The gall of these people, never mind they elected me.   Who do they think they are, anyway, criticizing me and questioning my decision. Hello! Didn’t they vote me exactly for my executive leadership abilities and decision-making prowess? 

Conspicuous consumption? The car is freaking second-hand! Meaning, it costs only the same as a ten-bedroom house in most subdivisions. What’s there to complain about?

Mid-life crisis? Har-har. I’m at least ten years beyond forty, so I’m not exactly a candidate.

Public funds? Uh-uh. Every single cent for this little baby came from my bank account. Not the taxpayer’s. Never mind if I have to drag ten security escorts with me when I go screaming down the expressway in my baby. (And leave them in the dust, oh yeah!) 

And they say, why can’t I wait until my term as President ends? Well, duh! My biological clock is ticking! My body is aging, the eye-sight is going, and most importantly, I’m losing my hair. If I buy a Porsche five years down the road, I might not have the reflexes needed to drive a car with that speed and power. Good luck to that unlucky soul I plow into when I get distracted by Soly’s curvaceous legs.

And most importantly, how would I look at that age, a near-sixty geezer tooling a Porsche down the polluted roads of EDSA, recently included in the top-ten life threatening adventures in Asia, where at least a thousand accidents happen every month? I would look like a doddering trying-hard fool, that’s what. Whereas, if I tool down EDSA while comfortably in my mid-fifties, I would look hot. Super hot. Specially if I use one of those jackets that Lizzie, my stylist, picked out for me. She’d like that. Oh darn, I forget, Lizzie and I are over.

See? That’s exactly why I need to drive a Porsche now. This very moment. Before my memory goes and dementia takes over. 

But back to the hotness factor. I need to impress chicks. Chicks who are not necessarily impressed with my position. I mean, if they date me only because I’m the President, what does that say about them, right? They’re being shallow, they don’t necessarily like me for myself. That’s not what I’m looking for. 

They should like me for me. With all my faults and all. Not because of my family name. Or my incredible inherited wealth.   I should avoid those kinds of girls who can’t get past those minor details. I mean, who needs power-hungry menopausal bitches. Oops. Better not think these things. I might get in trouble, like that congressman. Poor guy, to think he even represents teachers. I can’t believe he said those. In public. 

So yeah. Search for my soul mate. Attract them with the right tools. And this is step one, my man. Getting a hot (almost) new Porsche with low mileage. Almost like me myself. 

Get the right girl and settle down. One who can overlook my post. And my past. And the fact I have an annoying sister. Or sisters. Speaking of which, I wonder if those rumors are true. Did that coven really freeze out Soly? Surely, they wouldn’t do that to her. Nah, no need to think about that right now. Got to focus. Think about the perfect girl. 

She has to be sweet. Forgiving. Can laugh at my corny jokes. Won’t throw a fit when I go drinking with my buddies. Every night.  Very understanding. Patient with my many (but mini) faults. Indulgent when I need a break. Wouldn’t hurt if she had great gams. Oh yeah, and she should look smashing when inside the Porsche. I’m not going to go get another sports car just to match her outfit.