Mega City 1

In the late-'70s comic series Judge Dredd, the titular judge/jury/executioner antihero is the enforcer of all of the laws in Mega City 1, a new country whose boundaries start from the tip of Florida (yet going no further south than Atlanta, Georgia), through the Eastern seaboard and all the way to Quebec (I think). If I remember the story correctly, most of the North American continent goes to hell after some kinda government-bungled nuke heats things up significantly. The character of Dredd is a self-righteous bastard with a mean temper and a thing for maintaining order. Sound like anybody you know? Teacher? Professor? Owner of the cubicle farm you work at? Regional district manager? Presidential nominee? (Sorry, kapy53: I couldn't resist.)

I think if I had the power, I'd make a really fine benevolent dictator. Seriously. Why, off the top of my head, I could think of a couple policies I'd fast-track at once:

INCREASED ENFORCEMENT OF GROCERY-STORE EXPRESS LANES

Eight items means eight objects. I've wasted more time dealing with d-nozzles who think 17 cups of yogurt is one item. And don't get me started on vermin who need to write a check for a pack of smokes. Get a debit card, you product of adult incest, or end up cleaning the sewers of my nation with a toothbrush and an endless supply of breath strips you'll be forced to use twice, if you catch my drift.

A BAN ON UGLY PANTS. I remember a time when the most hideous piece of women's clothing was the full-length denim coat, the ultimate couture for white-trash stoner witches everywhere. But these things are positively gross, unflattering and moronic. I thought this trend died along with Limp Bizkit's career, but I just saw a bunch of them on some pinheads this weekend. (Of course, I am headquartered in Cleveland: Trends die hard here.) Under my law, ugly-pant owners will be ordered to adopt a dog from a shelter and set up an agility course for said pet, using the severed pant legs as closed chutes. Failure to comply will make the foodchain a bit more Soylent Green-colored.

A BAN ON MUSIC. That's right. If the bomb drops tomorrow, and somehow I collected more guns, money and legions of tree-trunk necked thugs than anyone else, there'd be no new music. Current musicians will be grandfathered, but will be forced to register their musical equipment. Sorry, friends: The proliferation of bands currently taking inspiration from bands less than 10 years old is making everything sound like Xerox copies of Xerox copies. And you know how that looks after a while, right? If the creation of new music was strictly forbidden, people of all ages and walks of life would be forced to explore and discover everything we've captured thus far, from the Library Of Congress archives to the quarter-bin at your local church rummage sale. The only problem with my draconian edict is then only "outlaws" will make music; the aural chum they'll come up with will suck even more wildly than what's happening today; and they'll be glamorized when they should be affixed to a wall with a nail gun straight through their Cowper's glands.

And that, friends, is a smidgen of Pettigrew's Brave New World. So who's with me? I'll need to fill some cabinet positions, so please state your qualifications and agendas below.