According to a recent Gallup poll, ninety-four per cent of Americans would vote for a woman for President. So why haven’t we had a female in the White House? Simple! We haven’t had the right candidate.

The electable female candidate reaches across the aisle with soft, moisturized hands. She knows how to fire a gun, but also has never held a gun, and doesn’t know what a gun is. She’s becoming a vegan, but stands behind Arby’s in its commitment to the Meats.

She would never eat her salad with a comb, because she knows that the only acceptable non-hair-related uses of a comb are scratching your back and playing it like a kazoo. She has never taken a DNA test, because she already knows that she’s a hundred per cent that bitch.

She has the charisma of a charlatan but the integrity of Charlie from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” She’s able to radically reshape society, but moderately. She was raised on a farm in the middle of Central Park.

Her paternal grandfather is Ronald Reagan. Her maternal grandfather is F.D.R. Her son is Keanu Reeves. Her other son got on the U.S.C. crew team by practicing. She went to Harvard, but hated it.

She has a diversified portfolio with a healthy annual yield of eighteen per cent, even though she invests only in companies that turn Styrofoam cups into schools in Africa. She plans to donate her estate to charity upon her demise, which doctors say won’t happen until at least 2039. She pays herself only ten per cent less than what she pays the men who work for her.

She promises to make a golden retriever her Veep. His name is Buddy, and he has only three legs, because he lost one in Nam. Buddy is socially liberal but fiscally conservative.

She’ll implement universal health care but fund the entire program herself by holding a gluten-free bake sale. She enjoys cooking festive dinners for her family and obliterating North Korea with nuclear weapons.

When she gets an iPhone-update alert, she installs it immediately. She never posts screenshots of her fortune-cookie fortunes on Instagram, because she knows that no one cares. She does not aspire to host her own comedy podcast one day. She survived the SooperDooperLooper at Hershey Park.

She is Beyoncé.

She knows how to change a tire, fix a 3-D printer, launch a torpedo, unlaunch a torpedo, and juggle wet bars of soap. She’s a boomer, but she has a great sense of humor about the phrase “O.K., boomer.”

She wears sensible shoes that are hot. She can bench-press two-fifty but has the lean muscles of a Zumba instructor. She’s six feet tall and a quarter of a foot wide. Her breasts are large but not obscene. Her rear is juicy. The only symptom of her period is that it makes her skinny. She glows in the dark, but in an extremely healthy, nonradioactive way.

She loves babies, even the ugly ones, although she has never participated in a gender-reveal party.

She is everything to everyone.

She would be pleased to be the President, but she is not ambitious enough to run. ♦