Don’t Run

H ey, you. Yes, you. I gather you’ve started hinting that you might run for president in 2024. Here’s an alternative idea: Don’t. Do something else instead. Travel. Learn to cook. Serve on a board. Start a podcast. Build a boat. Just stay the hell out of the field.

You know who you are. You’re the popular GOP governor of a blue state who believes that, against all odds and in spite of all the laws of supply and demand, he’s going to be nominated in 2024. You’re the Trump appointee who served in the last administration for two or three years and who has for some reason come to think that he might be credible as a MAGA-without-the-baggage candidate. You’re the morally decent Republican politician whose friends have convinced him that all it will take to transcend our current partisan trench warfare is a little integrity and a lot of pluck. You’re the long-retired former party darling who falls asleep each night telling himself that if all the cards fall in the right place, you might squeak to the front of the pack and make it to the convention. And whatever you think is going to happen to you over the next couple of years, you’re wrong.

Worse still, you’re counterproductive. Clearly, you don’t want Donald Trump to be president again, because if you did, you’d just say so. “I endorse Donald Trump,” you’d announce, as early as possible. And then, having done that, you’d do your level best to wrangle a role as his VP or secretary of state or ambassador to France. Instead, you’re planning on running against him — and enduring all that that entails — in the hope that you can stop him from returning to the White House. Which, frankly, is pretty stupid, because by running, you’re actually making it far more likely that he’ll be the nominee. Why? Well, because, again: You don’t stand a chance. That “lane” your consultant has told you about is actually just 3 percent of the primary electorate. And while that isn’t a huge problem in and of itself, once you add in the other ten or so Republican politicians operating under the same delusion as you, the non-Trump vote starts to become disastrously divided.

How do I know that? I know that because I can remember 2016, when 17 Republicans ran for the nomination and helped Trump win it with around 35 percent of the primary vote. Do you recall when Scott Walker saw what was happening, announced that he was dropping out, and said that he hoped others would follow him? And do you recall when nobody did? I do. Can that happen again? Sure, it can. And you’re a perfect example of why. Nobody — nobody — is clamoring for you to run for president. The dangers of your doing so are abundantly obvious. And yet, inexplicably, you’re still thinking of running.

Historically, only a handful of people in each party ran for president each cycle, and, typically, those people had a reason for doing so beyond their belief that they were indispensable to the future of the world. Perhaps they were the best representative of a particular view or constituency within their party; perhaps their approval rating and name recognition were both high; perhaps they had a unique expertise that was particularly suited to the problems of the time; perhaps they exuded so much charisma that even their critics were powerless to defeat them. But none of those things apply to you. You’re no different from the five others who’ll run on the same platform as you. Almost nobody has heard of you, and those who have don’t care about you. Far from being an expert, you’re just another guy. And if you had the sort of charisma that leads people to spontaneously recommend you for president, you’d have known it before now.

So, don’t do it. Don’t “consider” it. Don’t “pray on it.” Don’t form an exploratory committee. Don’t meet with donors. Don’t vacation in Iowa. Instead, turn on, tune in, and drop out. A grateful country will thank you for your service to the cause.