When I am president subways will be quieter. I’ll hire the unemployed to wax the rails, and trains will sound like ice moving over ice. And conductors will no longer blare, “Watch the closing doors!” because no one ever watches the closing doors. There’s nothing to see about closing doors. Instead, conductors will read from Euripides. If you travel the whole length of the E train, you’ll hear the whole Medea. Euripides is the best guide to human life, because he is sad, yet brave. This same sad bravery I will bring to the presidency — a stance dormant since Lincoln. “We are doomed, perhaps,” I will announce. “The sun is breaking through the sky to slay us with cancer, because we were foolishly indulgent with whipped cream. But we must set our course aright.” And all the women in the nation will weep, and the men will have a tear in their eye that can’t quite descend, and the people will cry for repentance. “Repentance! Repentance!” And I will blind myself with a can opener and wander the streets and prophesy and plant an oak tree, and beneath this tree a woman will sit seven years, then she’ll rise and save us from the sun, and the cancer will leave our faces, and we’ll sing a new song, which will resemble the music of Euripides that has been lost for centuries. And the conductors will sing that, as we ride on waxed rails, like ice over ice.