Nominate me. I dare you.
I’m independent. I’m an uncle. I know the facts, and I’ll say yes. This is a joke — and like every joke in this house, it’s wearing a real argument as its pants. Take the pants off and the joke can’t stand; take the joke away and the argument never walks out in public.
To anyone who can put a person in the room where it’s decided: nominate the independent. I dare you.
A governor appoints citizens to boards and commissions — that’s real, Governor Whitmer. A president nominates — yes, even you, and no, I don’t need you. Party-blind, all of you, including the ones I’d never vote for: put in the person with no donor to please and no party to obey. Let me in the room. (Drum, drum.)
The argument wearing the pants
The qualification for the room was never a price or a party; it was knowing the facts and refusing to lie. An independent can’t be bought (the gold is earned, not the gray one that’s sold), can’t be whipped, and owes only the record. That’s not a disqualification; that is the entire qualification. The Ethos is the platform, the open chair is the interview, and the dare is just the résumé said out loud.
The honest bones under the bit. The joke has a real twin: states genuinely appoint citizens to boards and commissions, and they genuinely take applications from ordinary people — no dare required. So the punchline “let me in the room” has an actual door behind it. Want in for real? The line is open:
I don’t need to be let in by anyone in particular. I just refuse to pretend the room is too good for a citizen who did the reading.
The machine drafts the dare. Only a human takes the seat. ;