If you had all voted for me, this never would have happened.

 Yes, yes, I know about the Constitutional law that states you must be at least 35 years old to become president. And I am well aware that although I am of a formidable—some might even dare say mammoth—size, it would not be enough to intimidate foreign leaders into behaving and/or giving us large sums of money with which to bolster our Pokemon habit.

 But come on. Hasn’t this election thing gone too far already?

 Here I am, Kim Shable, Concerned Citizen and *Nsync Fan, ready to cast my vote for the first time in a presidential election. So I go to the polls, punch out my destiny, return to campus confident that the next day I will have a new president-elect to play with and dress up and make burp (batteries not included with the Al Gore model).
 But I wake up the next day, and what do I find? Chaos! Despair! My favorite morning cartoons pre-empted for round-the-clock election coverage! And no new president.

 Now I am not, by nature, a political creature. I enjoy voting, but only because I get to stand in that cool booth, and pretend I am on the deck of a fancy space-age time-travel vehicle, the captain of the USS Hotnakedguys.

 But this election has me in a tizzy, and my doctor told me if I get into a tizzy one more time my head will explode, covering a tri-county area with what he calls—and I believe this is a medical term—some kind of yuck.

 The worst part of all of this for me is not the possibility that the wrong man—and by the wrong man, I guess I mean Sylvester Stallone—will end up as president, but that this whole thing may not be rectified until Inauguration Day, which is, as yet another part of the cosmic plan designed to ensure that I never have any fun, on my birthday.

 Imagine this—my second, sixth, tenth, fourteenth and eighteenth birthdays were all marred by the fact that some old man got to have a big party and wear a top hat and have Fleetwood Mac play for him. Here I am, crazed for attention—look at me, I got older, give me stuff!-- and the whole world is watching the new president, leaving me to celebrate with my good friends Captain Dustmop and Mr. Broken Neil Diamond Album.

 And now they’re saying that this whole thing might not even be resolved until Inauguration Day? No, sir! I’ve already lost five birthdays to the unstoppable greed machine that is the American presidency, and I’m not about to lose another.

 Therefore, I propose that Governor Bush and Vice President Gore decide who will be president the old fashioned way, the way enjoyed by our fore-fathers—a fight to the death.

 Think about it—one night, and the whole thing would be decided. Winner gets the presidency, loser gets, well, you know, death. And a handsome crocodile attaché case.

 And just think of all the revenue it will raise for our country. Why broadcast the ongoing travails of the election for free on the six o’clock news when we can televise the Pummeling for Pennsylvania Ave. over pay-per-view for $40 a household! Who wouldn’t want to watch it? Especially if Cindy Crawford was the referee, which she is required to be by an obscure Constitutional amendment ("Section II:A—we declare that in the event of a rumble for the presidency, Cindy Crawford wilt shaketh her booty as chief battle coordinatress.")

 I guarantee you that this solution will provide a timely end to our dilemma and a great deal of excess revenue, which will render our country filthy stinking rich, rich, rich, and enable us to buy ourselves a real president:

 Harrison Ford.