Eight down, ninety-two to go

I watch very little live TV. Broadcast sports in general are boring. Television news is a jabberfest, softball questions and preformed answers displayed as interview, celebrity soundbites flung out as if attention-worthy. Reality shows? Please, don’t make me say it.

On rare occasions, I have developed an interest in series drama or comedy. Mad Men, Nurse Jackie, Weeds. A few like that. But invariably, no matter how fascinating, funny, or intense, they begin to fall apart. Add new and improbable wrinkles, coast on old ideas, repeat old connections. So I’ve quit MM and NJ and Weeds. They were okay for a while, but they wore out. Lost their imagination or style or energy.

Which brings me to term limits for our elected leaders. They — even the best of them — are good for only a short time. (Short time might be ten years for top-notch ability; as little as ten days for the slugs).

My father used to tell of some ancient civilization he’d read about, in which an absolute ruler was elected every two years. No one was re-elected, because the first condition of running for leadership, and then accepting it, was agreeing that you would be killed at the end of your term.

The theory was that only a highly-motivated person would want the job, and would have no incentive to line the pockets for retirement.

Sounds good to me.

Only catch: my father was given to what I may call creative metaphor. So don’t go crazy trying to Google that old civilization.

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