Now that's forming a perfect union!
We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility... [and so on and so on] do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.
Yes, indeed, lofty goals were what our Founding Fathers were all about when they authored this hallowed document way back when. Little did they know that over 200 years later one disgruntled Baby Boomer would apply the concept of the Preamble to a goal about as unlofty as playing Mad Libs with the Gettysburg Address.
Like many of you, I from time to time engage in fantasies about youngish hot women to help satisfy urges that are as likely to be satisfied in reality as Bernie Sanders is to be ironing one of his shirts. And in good conscience I cannot foment a fantasy about a woman who would naturally think me as appealing as her dad's bowling partner unless I first create a back story explaining why she now finds me as irresistible as a hot fudge sundae.
Hence, the Fantasy Preamble.
Her name is Andi. She is 32 years old, blond and blue-eyed, with a heart the size of all outdoors and breasts to match. She is pursuing a graduate degree while working as a waitress at a nearby diner where I've impressed her with my charm, style, and tipping at 80%.
"Perry, I get off at 10:00. Will I see you tonight?"
"Andi, this can't go on, I'm old enough to be your fa-fa-fa..."
"Fa-fa-fa... fa-lal-lal-la-lal! Just getting into the spirit of the season!"
"I can't help it, Perry. I find you so sophisticated and attractive, with your paucity of hair, adorable wrinkles, and circles under your eyes the size of tea-cups."
"Well, Andi, when you got it, you got it!"
Fade out and into my fantasy.
Yes, folks, that's the Fantasy Preamble, which serves to make the unpalatable palatable. Without the preamble, my fantasy would no doubt include police bursting in, carting me away, and the youngest of the cops marrying Andi. The only problem is that sometimes I expend so much energy creating the preamble, I'm too pooped for the fantasy-in-chief!
Her name is Karen. She is 35 years old, red-headed and passionate, and an accountant whom I meet when she is doing my taxes.
"Perry, ever since I first prepared your 1040 I knew there was something special about you."
"Was it the income under the poverty line?"
"Oh, Perry, I know you're worried about the age difference between us, but I don't care!"
"But Karen, be reasonable: When you're 40, I'll be 70. When you're 50, I'll be 60, I'm not exactly sure how but I'm working on it ..."
"I don't care! You have an ineffable quality!"
"I know, Karen, I know. But even the most ineffable among us one day loses his ineffability and ...
"You know, Perry, maybe you're right."
"Maybe I'm right? I don't even know what I just said!"
Sometimes, I'm afraid, even the best of preambles doesn't fulfill its desired purposes.
I wonder if the Founding Fathers ever had that problem too.