Dear Mun . . .

So, right off the bat I want to make it clear I'm not even contemplating this as a real option. It's not on the table-- it's not even in the same room as the table, in fact. This is a non-starter.

But all right, let's run the scenario so I can bring you around to my (and by my, I mean 'the right') conclusions.

So, you send me to space. All right, I'm space's first non-practicing Connecticut Jew. Bully for me. It's exciting for a few days, other than the sheer terror, but then... what?

Nothing, is what. I'm a beltway kind of guy, and the last time I checked your tin can on the edge of the universe wasn't holding free elections. They don't even have a governing body, and you have to understand how that hurts me. The death of democracy, laid in shards at our feet like so much broken glassware.

...No, glassware doesn't scan. Way too dramatic, this isn't Days of Our Lives. Anyway, my brief descent into Faulknerisms isn't the point. The point is that Star Trek fan or no, this isn't the place for me. Think about it-- they're not holding their breath waiting for a guy to come in and wheel and deal for the president they don't have.

Do us both a favor, just drop it. Or hey, send Donna. Always a viable option, making Donna do the things I don't want to.