When a crazy man commands the world’s most formidable military force, however, it creates a problem. The captain in the West Wing who holds the nuclear football must be thinking about this: he has the code, the C.i.C. needs the code to send the order — what if the Commander is dressed like Jesus and is shouting things that make no sense about the election stolen from Viktor Orbán and the framing of Jeffrey Epstein and the media conspiracy to deny the Gulf of America and the need for Greenland?
Has West Point prepared the captain for this eventuality? I’m only asking.
There are advantages to being 83 years old and one is the Not My Problem option. I went off to Sonoma last week and hung out with some people my age and we stood around singing Do you remember when we used to sing sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la-de-da and everyone knew the words so we sang Chantilly lace with a pretty face and a ponytail hanging down and Goodness gracious, great balls of fire. Pure silliness. I loved it. We’ve been horrified long enough. We can be horrified again on Friday. Time to dance with our arms in the air and be joyful.
Joy is one thing the C.i.C. has never experienced in his adult life. Poor man.
