This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, Oct. 8, 2008 - Last week, the eyes of a troubled nation turned to St. Louis for the much anticipated vice presidential debates. Later that evening, a comforted citizenry went to bed secure in the knowledge that we'll never suffer a deficit of national perkiness with Sarah Palin around.
Dad-gummit, by golly, Mrs. Palin exhibited enough cheery pluck to fuel an Orphan Annie convention. I had anticipated a no-holds-barred face-off between the Barracuda and Bob Uecker. Instead, Uecker showed but the Barracuda mysteriously morphed into central casting's candidate for the female lead in State Fair.
For his part, Joe Biden, the old pro who's been doing this sort of thing since Palin was in Jr. High, seemed bemused by her shtick. He reminded me of Minnesota Fats watching Fast Eddie Felson shoot pool in The Hustler -- the accomplished veteran admiring the potential of a promising but unpolished challenger.
By the end of the "debate" -- an event better described as dueling infomercials -- little had been conclusively established save that Biden has an engaging smile and Palin has great legs. Subsequent polling data indicate that most viewers thought Biden won, although I'm not sure that the "good gams" metric was properly factored into that analysis.
If I sound a bit jaded, it's probably because I'm jealous that one of these two is about to get the job I've been training for all of my life.
The vice presidency is the nation's most misunderstood office. The VP is not the assistant president, nor is he -- and yes, they've all been men so far -- an underling of the chief executive. True, he has no real power of his own, but that doesn't mean that anybody can boss him around. The VP is an independent office-holder who dwells in constitutional limbo with little to do and absolutely no one to answer to.
Article I of the Constitution provides that "the Vice President of the United States shall be President of the Senate, but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided." Of course, the president of the Senate, like the senators themselves, is under no obligation to actually show up when that august body is in session. Similarly, he may vote to break a tie, but again is not obliged to actually do so.
In Article II, we get to the meat of the position. Should the office of the president be vacated, said office shall "devolve on the Vice President." Further, as president of the Senate, the VP must oversee the tabulation of the ballots of the Electoral College.
So, there you have it: Monitor CNN to make sure the president isn't dead and count 538 votes once every four years. I can do this job.
And the office comes with some rather attractive benefits. The current salary is $221,000 annually plus an expense account and the always-popular perk of a take-home car. But, as Monte Hall used to say, "There's more to the deal!" The car comes with a chauffeur and you also get a Secret Service escort, a house, a helicopter and an airplane. After five years, you're vested in the pension plan. What's not to like?
Once you're sworn in as VP, the only way to constitutionally get rid of you is through impeachment. But you've got an ace up your sleeve should that distasteful prospect arise. If the president is impeached, he's tried in the Senate and his trial is presided over by the chief justice of the Supreme Court. If you're impeached, the Constitution merely requires that you be tried by the Senate -- and remember, you're the president of the Senate. You could thus preside over your own impeachment. Your attorney ought to enjoy that arrangement.
Of course, all this talk of impeachment procedures is somewhat theoretical because nobody has ever bothered to impeach a vice president, nor has one ever been assassinated. In fact, unlike the presidency, this job appears to be good for your health.
Of the 48 men who have served as VP, five are still alive. Of the remaining 43, 26 (60.5 percent) lived into their seventies or beyond. That's a remarkable statistic considering that the sample extends back to 1789 when life expectancy was no where near what it is today. As a matter of fact, the first VP, John Adams, lived to be 90. Well, any doctor will tell you that stress is a killer.
The longest-lived VP was John Nance Garner who died in 1967, two weeks shy of his 99th birthday. He once famously described his office as "not worth a bucket of warm piss" -- a comment I find deeply offensive.
Garner was FDR's first Veep, serving from 1933 to 1941. Here's a guy who gets a good-paying, do-nothing government job at the height of the Great Depression and the best he can do to express his thanks is to coin an unpleasant excretory comparison.
Rather than bellyaching, the ingrate should have called a press conference to voice his complete support of the president, and then adjourned to a tropical resort with a task force of girls from the steno pool to discuss the situation over cocktails.
People who try to make the job into something it isn't tend to create problems. The Machiavellian Dick Cheney has turned a harmless sinecure into a labyrinth of dark intrigue. In doing so, he has ill-served the nation (Google "The War in Iraq" for details).
Similarly, Palin and Biden foresee activist roles for themselves in their prospective administrations. Clearly, both are unfit for office.
Great vice presidents are born, not made. They're individuals who are temperamentally inclined to view a second place finish as a pretty good showing. Unlike Avis, being #2 doesn't make them try harder. Rather, they tend to bask in the glow of a job almost well-done.
I was born on Groundhog's Day -- the second day of the year's second month. And I'm ready to serve.
M.W. Guzy is a retired St. Louis cop who currently works for the city Sheriff's Department. His column appears weekly in the Beacon.