I think America is ready to have a black president.  I also think we’re ready to have a female president.  One day we might even be ready to have Arnold Schwarzenegger as our commander in chief, but he’s going to have to work on his accent before Texans vote for him. What we’re NOT ready for is having Hillary’s husband Bill – you remember him, don’t you? – as the country’s first male First Lady.

Which makes me wonder – if Hillary is elected and she and Bill bring their U-Haul to Washington, what will we call him? The First Man?  The First Spouse?  More than likely he’ll be referred to as The First Gentleman, but won’t that be stretching it a bit?

No sir!  I don’t think Bill is right for the job.  We need someone we can admire.  We need someone we can look up to.  We need someone who has no problem crashing on a White House couch, eating hotlinks covered with chili while watching World Federation Wrestling.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is a job for a guy named Larry.

If you will, let’s imagine for a moment that someday we have a female president, that her First Gentleman is named Larry, and we’re on a White House tour.

The first thing we notice as we step through the front gates is that the lawn is immaculate, the edge is perfectly trimmed, the shrubs are cut in the shape of gumdrops, and there is a hammock swinging in the shade.  And what do we deduce from all that?  We deduce that Larry pays his grounds crew a whole lot more than we pay little Jimmy from down the street, and Larry knows how to delegate while sipping on a cold iced tea. 

As we enter the front door, there to greet us is none other than Mrs. President and her First Husband Larry.  Mrs. President greets us with a firm handshake, but Larry gives us a bear hug and offers us a large cherry limeade from Sonic.

After the initial greetings, Mrs. President and Larry give us a tour of the house, showing us the bedrooms, the bathrooms, and walk-in closets complete with Hers and His matching Power Ranger pajama sets.  We also get to view walls of fabulous artwork as well as shelves full of knickknacks Larry bought from stops at Stuckey’s.

After a while, Mrs. President is called away – probably something to do with running the country – and Larry continues giving us the tour.  Only now with the missus gone, he gives us a wink, puts his arms around our shoulders, and guides us to the Oval Office.

Larry takes a peek inside the room to make sure no one is there, and then he ushers us in.  He tells us that when his wife is away, he sneaks into the room to sit behind the desk to “play president.”  Sometimes he thinks about using the Hotline to make prank calls to Moscow, but he chickens out at the last moment.

Next, the First Gentleman takes us into the deepest bowels of the White House to a room with a sign over the door.  The sign says “Larry’s Place.”

Larry opens the door and we enter into what looks like a nightclub.  There’s a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, a pool table in the corner, a drum set sitting on a stage waiting to be played, and a complete Burger King counter manned by a staff of three.

Larry explains that heads of state never get to see this part of the White House.  He reserves this for “the guys.”  Guys like Pedro and Oscar, the grounds crew.  Guys like Steve the plumber who helps unclog the toilets.  Guys like Ron and Benny who don’t know a thing about politics but know three different ways to field dress a buck. 

At the end of the tour, Larry walks us out to the front gate, gives us another bear hug, and puts a hand-rolled cigar in our front shirt pockets.  He says the next time we visit he’ll grill us some hamburgers on the official White House grill. 

As we walk away, we turn to take one last look at the White House and see the First Gentleman giving us a thumbs up.  Larry is just like that.  He’s a guy’s guy.