George, Jan99, Vol. 4 Issue 1, p30, 3p, by Franken, Al

IN RUSH LIMBAUGH 15 A BIG FAT IDIOT, AL FRANKEN TOOK AIM AT THE GOP. NOW HE'S BACK--AND HE'S HEADED FOR THE WHITE HOUSE. AN EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT FROM FRANKEN'S NEW BOOK, WHY NOT ME?

The reason I'm running for president is very simple: to restore America's lost faith in its leaders. The high-paid m

edia pundits may say this claim is grandiose, that I'm not qualified, that I'm deluded or even seriously mentally ill. But I think the American people know better.

Yes, I know the job of president of the United States can be a difficult one. Full of challenges, decisions, and meetings. Furthermore, a president must be diplomatic and statesmanlike, which sometimes can mean being nice to people he doesn't like. As the leader of the world's only remaining superpower, the president can ignite nuclear Armageddon at the touch of a button, killing billions. That is a responsibility not to be taken lightly.

Yes, the president does earn $200,000 a year. But when you break that down on an hourly basis, it's no more than a union plumber in the New York City public school system or a third-rate heart surgeon, neither of whom confronts life-and-death decisions on a daily basis, except the heart surgeon. Still, by the standards of the forgotten middle class, the working poor, and the not working poor, $200,000 is a nice chunk of change. But, unlike some of the candidates I'll be running against, for me the money is secondary.

My inspiration to run for president is threefold. First, there is the Franken family tradition of public service, which began back in the old country when my uncle Moishe left his little village in Russia. Everyone in the village said it was a public service. But, seriously, this is not a time to indulge in traditional Yiddish humor. Or so my media advisers tell me.

Second, as a parent, every day I look into the eyes of my children, not only to make sure they're not on drugs but also to remind myself of the legacy I will leave behind. As Miss America 1988 Kaye Lani Rae Rafko once said, "Our children are America's future." I agree. And I have made a solemn pledge to my children that I will leave this planet in at least as good a condition as I found it, if not better.

Third, I have been inspired by the example of some recent candidates for our nation's highest office: former Tennessee governor Lamar Alexander, Reagan-era functionary Alan Keyes, and tire king Morry Taylor. When I looked at them, I said to myself, "Hey, I can do that!"

The decision to run for president is not one that is made casually. I am well aware of the toll this will take on my family and on Colin Powell, who will never hear the end of it if I win.

But the decision was not mine and my therapist's alone. There was a third person involved, the most important person in my life. Franni Franken is not just my wife, not just the mother of my children, not just the woman who cleans my house--she's also my best friend. By that, I mean we have sex together. But after the sex, we often have a conversation. That's what makes us not just friends but best friends. (This is not to say that if you and your spouse are not friends, that you shouldn't vote for me. Because I know what that's like, too.) When I told Franni that I was going to run for president, she said, "Fine. If that'll make you happy." That's the kind of woman she is. So, she's on board.

In our family, we make important decisions by consensus. Everyone--Franni; my son, Joe; my daughter, Thomasin; and myself--must agree before we embark on major life changes. (That's why we never bought that DeLorean I wanted.) It was time for a family meeting.

On a rainy Sunday afternoon in March, our family gathered around the kitchen table, as so many other American families do, whether to cope with a family crisis, tell a joke, watch a sporting event, play cards, discuss a string of unsolved rapes in the neighborhood, or just have a snack. I laid out the pros and cons of a campaign for the presidency. I described for my kids an America where every child would have clean water, access to the Internet, and regular vaccinations.

"You're just pulling this stuff out of your ass to make us feel guilty," Thomasin said. "I didn't ask to be inoculated."

Franni came in on my side like a true champion. "Thomasin! If your dad's going to be president, you won't be able to use words like ass at the dinner table."

"My point exactly," Thomasin replied.

Franni decided to change tack. "Honey, I'm sure your dad understands how much you dislike the idea of his being president. But this is something he wants us to agree on as a family. So, what if Dad took us all to Hawaii for spring vacation? You'd feel better about Dad running for president then, wouldn't you?"

Franni was onto something. Because she spends so much more time with the children than I do, she knew how much a simple $10,000 vacation to Hawaii would mean to a status-seeking Manhattan teenager. But it was my son, Joe, who provided the clincher.

"Thomasin, let's take the trip. A, he'll never win. And B, The Simpsons is on."

And so, a month later, jet-lagged, tanned, and with my family firmly behind me, I began my quest to lead the worl

d. Whenever I tell people that I'm running for president, they act surprised. Why, they want to know, would I squander the respect I've earned in my climb to the pinnacle of show business? The answer is very simple: It's time to give something back.

My first experience in giving something back worked out very well. In the wake of the Contract with America and the Republican takeover of Congress in 1994, I decided to write a best-seller that would alert America to the dangers of Newt Gingrich and his gang of thugs.

The first thing any writer has to do when preparing to write a best-seller is to find the best possible team for the job at hand. I interviewed Judith Krantz's team, John Grisham's team, and Team Tom Clancy, none of whom were right for the job. This meant one thing: I would have to assemble my own team from scratch to begin work on the book, then tentatively titled Rush Limbaugh's Butt Is Big and Smelly.

For policy, I went to Norm Ornstein of the American Enterprise Institute--the top policy guy in the business. For research, there was Geoff Rodkey and a group of young Harvard graduates, affectionately known as the Nexis Gang. For writing, I brought in Nobel Prize winner Saul Bellow. But his approach didn't work. Neither did Isaac Bashevis Singer's. These were dark days.

But after a few false starts I settled upon a method that seemed to work and that, I think, will become the standard for all books written in the future. We would begin with a policy document drafted by Norm. Geoff and his crew would add facts and figures. Then our writers' room, consisting of Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Pynchon, and Singer--who was, frankly, deadwood, but he was old and needed the money--would pound out a rough draft. Then I would look it over.

Vonnegut and Pynchon did commendable work, and even old Singer got a line or two in now and then. But they weren't funny, at least not ha-ha, laugh-out-loud funny. There was only one solution: I would have to write the book myself.

Rush Limbaugh Is a Big Fat Idiot was a number-one best-seller for over 100 weeks. More than that, it stopped the Gingrich-Limbaugh gang dead in its tracks. The Republican Revolution was over, and it was I, Al Franken, who had driven the stake through its hard, black, and tiny heart.

Several years later, I encountered Limbaugh at a party. He was drunk, of course, but nonetheless very pleasant and seemed to bear no hard feelings about my book, which, along with the attacks on his so-called "philosophy," had included a number of ad hominem insults regarding his size. He put a hammy arm around my shoulders and said, "Franken, you are one funny little Jew boy. Hey, pull my finger!"

"Uh, no thanks, Rush. I don't think I really want to pull your finger."

"Fine, then I'll pull it myself."

True to his word, Rush pulled his own finger, releasing an enormous cloud of intensely foul gas from the seat of his XXXL khakis. Although his behavior was almost unimaginably crude, I have to give the man credit: He was simply too big to hold a grudge, and even offered me sloppy seconds with one of his hookers.

My writers and I had stemmed the deadly right-wing tide in the nick of time, saving such essential programs as Medicare, Social Security, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Next time you and your family are enjoying an exhibit of Robert Mapplethorpe photos of gay men defecating on each other, remember that if it were not for my book, you would have had to pay a hefty admission fee.

As the best-selling author of a book that had changed the course of American history, I was roundly feted in intellectual, artistic, and political circles. It wasn't long before I received an invitation from the White House to consult for President Clinton on matters ranging from domestic policy to foreign affairs to jokes about his eating a lot of Big Macs. There I got to take the measure of the man who has been called the smartest Democratic politician ever--indeed, the smartest person ever, period. I think that's overstating it, but he is very smart.

Still, I found myself diving in with suggestions for improvements on many of his more far-fetched schemes, like providing tax credits for child care. There, amid policy wonks and spin doctors like George Stephanopoulos, Rahm Emanuel, Hillary Clinton, and Leon Panetta, I felt in my element. And though it would be bragging to say that I was better than all the president's other advisers put together, I was certainly better than any of them individually.

Being a White House insider had its shocking and unseemly side. This was brought home to me every time l encountered Al Gore, whose uncontrollable libido and inappropriate sexual behavior brought shame and ill-repute to Bill Clinton's presidency. I remember Gore leaving a meeting after a particularly unimpressive performance to go chase girls. I turned to Panetta, rolled my eyes, and asked, "Is it just me? Or is that guy a complete zero?" Panetta confirmed my worst suspicions, saying something to the effect that putting Gore on the ticket had been a big mistake.

And yet Al Gore is supposed to carry our party's standard into the new millennium. That is, if he can take the time away from his endless womanizing to fill out the necessary documents.

Also, Tipper's no prize. But indulging in personal attacks is not the "Franken style." I wish I could say that personal attacks are also not a part of the "Gore style," but, like many Americans, I believe Gore is willing to do anything, no matter how dishonest or illegal, to get elected. So, Al, if you're reading this, I pledge to you and the American people that I will match you blow for blow if you try and pull this campaign down into the gutter.

If you, for instance, call me "unqualified," I will respond by calling you "unqualified." If you call me a "bastard" or a "cocksucker," I will call you the very same thing. If you attack my family, particularly my children, by, say, calling them "dumb" or "spoiled," I think you know what I'll do. Yes. I will criticize your children and call them names also.

There. Now that we're clear, the campaign can proceed. May the best man win.