Kosher Eucharist / יוקאריסט כשר

I must take issue with your leadership.

A sputtering war effort. A flagging economy. A plummeting dollar. A government rocked by ever more obvious corruption and nepotism, a major city drowned by negligence just as much as water, public schools abandoned, gay rights trampled, Evangelical moralizing enshrined as law, civil liberties gleefully tossed away like offerings at the sooty feet of Osama, a nation in flames.

You have failed as a leader, Mr. President. And like so many before you, it is because in your own manic hubris, and in your preference of stimulant use to book-learning, you have failed to acknowledge history and refused to recognize those common missteps that led to the ruin of many a leader of men.

Had you attended Classics at Yale instead of shotgunning brewskis and hoovering Colombian off the creamy riding-toned midriffs of the female scions of respected blueblood Connecticut dynasties, you might have come into contact with the phrase panem et circenses, which is Latin (think Spanish, but older and less…you know…wet of back) for “bread and circuses.”

The phrase comes from the satiric Roman poet Juvenal - who, as his name would imply, was basically ancient Rome’s version of our Juvenile, except of course Juvenal never so perfectly encapsulated his people’s dominant preoccupation as did his modern equivalent in “Back That Azz Up” - and it implies that the proletariat is more concerned with satisfying its baser urges and gawking at intrigue and bloodsport than it is with the maintenance and safeguarding of its own basic liberties. As long as they were plied with wheat, wine and gladiatorial carnage, Juvenal laments, the public was more than willing to sacrifice the noble ideals upon which the Republic was founded and ignore the machinations of an avaricious and corrupt Senate jockeying for what little power was doled out by their increasingly despotic leader.

Get your hand out of your pants, Mr. President.

The problem with your administration, Mr. President, is that while you have wreaked massive discord and chaos in America and abroad, and have made transparent attempts to increase your own power at the expense of our nation’s founding principles, you, unlike similarly-occupied Roman emperors of old, have failed to provide either panem or circenses. Caesar distracted the public from the barbarians howling at the borders with epic, sanguinary gladiator games; the barbarians howl even louder at our borders today and all we get it is American Idol. Frankly, it’s unfair, Mr. President - you’ve attempted abuses of office that would make any emperor short of Nero blush, yet not a single Guantanamo Bay detainee has ever been forced to battle a lion.

So clearly, if you are to continue on your governmental rampage, we the people need a more visceral form of mass national entertainment. You could, in a pinch, tweak the extant formula a little - perhaps that British cunt could physically, rather than verbally, flay mediocre contestants on the aforementioned Idol, or perhaps the winner could eat the heart of the runner-up on national television in order to gain its power - but I have a better idea. A more effective idea.

You must execute Paris.

Surely you’ve noticed, Mr. President. The recent decision by the saintly and praiseworthy Superior Court Judge Michael T. Sauer to toss a shrieking, tear-soaked Hilton back into the prison-bound Black Maria has sparked a universal spasm of schadenfreude so pure and intense that it makes the day we scraped Saddam out of that hole look like Pearl Harbor. The California courts have the handle, Paris has the blade, and unified as one nation for the first time since 9/11, America waits breathlessly to see how far the courts will twist it.

You’d be a fool to not see the opportunity lying within this, Mr. President. As long as the most reviled figure in American society is bleeding, whether figuratively or, may the day soon come, literally, you have carte blanche to do whatever you want. Forget about chipping away at the bedrock of American democracy and freedom with your sneaky little signing statements - as long as we are secure in the knowledge that Paris is, as I write this, being subjected to a vaginal cavity search by the cold fingers of justice, you can pick your least favorite Amendment and just get rid of it. Poof. Paris loses her right to Blackberry, we lose our right to free assembly, and nobody will make a peep.

And it could be even better, Mr. President. If Paris was to be killed for her crimes against humanity, such a nationwide euphoria would erupt that you could throw out the Constitution like tea into the harbor.

But the window of opportunity is short. You must do it now, while she is ensconced in the frigid embrace of the Law, her powers weakened by institutional Salisbury steak, her resolve eroded by increasingly verdant gonorrhea discharge. You must do it now, for if she is allowed once more to breathe the smog-tinged air of freedom, she will elude you, Sandman-like, blowing away on the wind and manifesting out of cocaine and Midori wherever strobe lights flash and anonymous dicks cry out for the sweet caress of those inviting, virally-loaded 98.6 degrees. You must do it now, Mr. President.

And not for Paris is a draught from Death’s sodium pentothal martini, nor a rendezvous with His high-voltage Barcalounger - Paris’ end must be public, and it must be violent.

Try to think of a good way to do it, Mr. President. Put an IED in her mini-purse and give her the Baghdad Special. Give Tinkerbell her revenge and drop Paris in a sea of a thousand ravenous chihuahuas. Place her in a room containing only a television camera, speakers playing “Stars Are Blind” at earsplitting volume, and a razor blade and see how long it takes before she succumbs to the urge. Feel free to be creative, Mr. President.

Perform this vital public service, Mr. President, and I will be the first one on my knees to kiss the signet ring of your new imperial office.