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The Secretary of Agriculture shall consider, among other things: . . . initiating a rulemaking to define the conditions under which the labeling of meat products can bear voluntary statements indicating that the product is of United States origin, such as ‘Product of USA.’
— from a White House executive order signed by President Joseph R. Biden Jr., July 9, 2021
Executive orders are so fun! You just write down stuff that you wish would happen, and it all comes true. (Assuming the Ninth Circuit approves.) If issuing blathering 72-part executive orders works for POTUS, there’s no reason it can’t also work for you and me! So here’s my executive order.
Waiters will stop crouching at the table as though waiting for a pitch from Jacob deGrom. Stand tall, man, you’re degrading yourself.
Upon demand, and at such moments as from time to time may be deemed necessary by the undersigned, the president pro tem of the Senate shall instantly appear at my house and find the Roku remote.
The secretary of agriculture will submit proposals for, design and implement a national Taco Tuesday policy. This policy will displace all existing Department of Agriculture policies, and maintaining it shall become the sole duty of the department.
The secretary of commerce shall, after consultation with appropriate agency heads, submit for public feedback a proposed rule change to reduce the price of a flat white at Starbucks by not less than 50 percent.
Immediate return of “Better Call Saul.”
Suburban-soccer-mom-vehicle nomenclature will be regulated to exclude model names that sound like thrill rides for soldiers of fortune. I’m looking at you, Nissan Rogue.
There will finally be a great movie made of “Camelot,” and Julie Andrews will be restored to age 26 so she can star in it.
The soft bellies of all middle-aged men with my name, address and Social Security number will be replaced overnight by Brad Pitt’s abs in “Fight Club.”
The movie “Used Cars” (1980) will appear on Netflix. (And it will remain as great as it was when I was 15.)
No checkout line will be allowed to be longer than five customers in the Upper West Side Trader Joe’s whenever I happen to be there. (And the checkout dude will not be unduly jolly and chatty.)
Onions will be banned.
And saying, “But what about Trump?”
Also there will be a ban on plastic-bag bans.
My friend Rob will cease to awaken me by texting me links to MY OWN COLUMNS at SIX O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING.
Ban on using term “genius bar” for any location except where actual certified geniuses are serving drinks.
Humidity levels in the United States of America, all associated territories and whatever the hell Guam is will max out at 55 percent, except when it rains. Rain will be allowed only between midnight and 6 a.m. from May through September.
George Harrison and John Lennon shall come back to life and it will turn out that as of 2021, the Beatles’ best album has not yet been made.
Christopher Nolan will be required to come over to my house and personally answer all of my questions about “Tenet.”
A designated expert will come over and remove all the crumbs from the back seat of the car, where the kids sit, and not leave until the job is done, no matter how many days the job may take.
All brownies and pork products will henceforth have negative caloric value and cholesterol counts, so that consuming them will actually lead to weight loss.
Half-price sushi day at Publix will no longer necessarily be Wednesday but shall be whatever day I happen to be in the store and in the mood for sushi.
Anyone who drives 55 mph in the fast lane will, together with his vehicle, be spontaneously lifted off the surface of the highway and deposited at the nearest rest stop for a period of reflection and repentance.
Tactical nuclear strike on Terminal One at O’Hare.
Everyone will stop pretending kids face any serious risk from COVID.
Adapted from National Review.
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