Kanye West capped off a long, particularly Westian speech at the VMAs with the announcement that in 2020, he’s running for president. Naturally, Terraform set out to tap some of the best writers on the Kanye beat to imagine a West Administration circa 2021. Here are five visions of America under President Yeezus.
The President takes a seat at the head of a long conference table. Kendrick Lamar sits at the other end. The President holds out his hand, and a member of Secret Services steps forward, and places a Snickers in his outstretched palm. “You’re the guy with all the money,” he says down the table.
“I am now. Secretary of the Treasury,” Lamar says. “But why it’s me, I don’t get it.”
“We need to give money to people who need it,” says The President. He examines the Snickers and finds the wrapper unbroken; he holds it out again to the Secret Service agent, who splits it open.
“I totally agree.”
“Fuck you say,” the President says. “Take all my money. I’ll get more of it.”
“There are still poor people, people on welfare, people who are homeless, people held down by social constructs. They need our help.”
“Where should we get it?” Lamar asks.
“We’ll get it from the rich people,” The President says.
“Well, the rich people don’t want to just give us their money. Would you want to to give your money, Mr. President?”
“Fuck you say,” the President says. “Take all my money. I’ll get more of it. So will they. We seem to be pretty fucking good at it don’t you think?”
“Good point. Taxes?”
“Perfect.” The President finishes his Snickers, crumples the wrapper. “Why did that take everyone else so long?”
“White people.”
The President gets up, turns and strides down the long hallway leading out the conference room. As he walks, he booms, “I told you to get rid of these old ass paintings, this is some retrograde shit! And this carpet, I said yesterday, -BLACK- -SUEDE- -RUNNER-, what’s taking so long? You, your shoes—take them off, and come back tomorrow with something better. Fuck an Allen Edmond, goddamn.” Aides grab the frames off the walls and sprint away.
–Casey Johnston. Johnston is editor at the Sweethome. Her work has appeared in Wired, the Awl, Ars Technica, and here at Motherboard.
“Sir, your pocket’s buzzing.” Kanye didn’t need Jeremy, the Secret Service agent assigned to his detail this afternoon, to tell him that his pocket was buzzing—but as he had learned in the two-something years of his first (hopefully, he thought to himself as he did every day, only) presidential term, Secret Service agents were as useless as they were utterly essential. “Sir—” “I know, Jeremy, I know.” Without even looking, Kanye knew who was making the phone call to his iPhone 8zQ without even looking at its recyclable-plastic touchscreen: it was James, who, in simpler times, Kanye affectionately referred to as Cudi.
James had called him every day since the accident—specifically, the private plane crash in the Rockies a year and a half ago that took the lives of his wife, Kim, and the rest of her family save for the two children she and Kanye conceived together—to see if he would talk. Kanye wouldn’t talk though. Kanye won’t talk, he thought to himself; the irony wasn’t lost on him. He sighed deeply, and put his phone on silent.
When the 2020 election finally arrived, the people elected Kanye as a write-in with 97% of the popular vote.
“We’re about thirty minutes from the airport, Mr. President.” Another trip to China. When would this job end? Kanye knew the answer wasn’t readily available, and he wished it was. How many times had he thought back to that night on stage in the fall of 2015—when, as a simple diversion from getting out of performing a medley of hits to cover up for the fact that he’d recently scrapped all work on the never-to-be-released SWISH (What a stupid title, he thought), he unleashed a brilliant ramble of a speech inspired by the lit end of a blunt and capped off with the proclamation that he’d run for president in 2020.
