As I was working in my study, a faint knocking sound came from my door. I didn't need to be a telepath to identify that weak-wristed, pathetic rap.


"Come in, Scott," I called out.


Cyclops entered. "Oh, uh, I'm not, er, disturbing you . . am I, Professor?"


"No, Scott. I was just going over Jon, the Intergalactic Gladiator's campaign stops in Kansas. Apparently the humans are very excited about some large ball of twine in Cawker City. Seems like a mandatory visit on all the candidates itineraries."


"Oh, right . . the, uh, Presidential thing. That's, um, kind of what I, er, wanted to . . you know, talk to you about."


"Yes?"


"Well I was thinking, I mean I heard that he was, uh, kind of like having interviews or something for, you know, Vice President? And uh . ."


"You want to be his Vice President."


"Uh . . yeah. I have, like, leadership experience. And, uh, I can give, you know, speeches and stuff . . "


"See the thing is Scott, I think Jon is looking for someone more-"


Just then my door banged open.


"What is this nonsense?! You would actually consider this weasel to be Vice President?!"


"Hello, Storm," I said.


"It's just typical white male arrogance, perpetuating the racist, sexist hierarchy, suppressing all the voice that don't belong to your little elitist club."


"Storm, it's not like that. Jon intends-"


"Oh please! Like there's anything you could say that would convince me that he is anything but part of the misogynistic repressive machine created by European land owners to subjugate the free will of the rest of the world. You will fall, fascist!"


And with that, like the proverbial whirlwind, she stormed out, leaving Scott and I staring at each other. Finally, he spoke. "Chicks!"