I spend a lot of time trying to figure out the easiest way to become the emperor of the world. The key word here is “easiest” because I’m not willing to put in all the time killing opponents that it would take to do it the traditional way.

So here’s my latest idea. I wait for an American election year when there’s no obvious choice for our next president. I will become an American citizen while I wait. The upcoming election fits that description. Then I identify the most popular person in the country who refuses to run for president. For the sake of my example, let’s say that person is Oprah.

Then I form my own political party named Oprah’s Trained Monkey and run for the presidency myself. My platform would be “whatever Oprah tells me.” So in effect, voting for me would get you all of the same decisions and policies as if Oprah herself were president. I would promise to consult Oprah on all decisions and do whatever she recommended. The great thing is that no one would even care what Oprah’s opinion are. Voters would figure that Oprah is smart and caring and honest and unaffected by special interests, so how bad can her policies be?

I assume that Oprah would object to this concept. She might even tell everyone not to vote for me. But that would make Oprah even more beloved because it would prove she is not seeking power. Voters eat up that sort of crap.

In the televised debates, whenever it was my turn I would just shrug and say, “I dunno. I’d do whatever Oprah tells me. And by the way, each of you will find an iPod under your chair.”

Once elected, I would break my campaign promise of obeying Oprah. There’s no law against changing your mind. At that point I would be the leader of the world’s biggest superpower. Then I’d just start annexing other countries. There would be no military action involved, just some highly publicized document signing ceremonies involving no one but me. Then I would grant the citizens in that annexed country a tax rebate and tell them they can collect it any time they like. No hurry.

So the citizens of Cuba, for example, would each get $1,000 if they can figure out how to collect it. That’s serious money in Cuba, especially if you are a family of five. There are about 12 million Cubans, so that’s only 12 billion dollars. America can afford that. Then we just sit back and wait for the coup. Once Cuba becomes a state, their economy would improve through capitalism and we’d more than recover the investment in tax revenues.

I’d need a slightly different strategy for the richer countries. For example, Great Britain might not agree to statehood for $1,000 per citizen. I’d have to sweeten the pot by reminding the British males that American girls can’t resist their accents. I’d agree to subsidize airline travel to the mainland so they can take advantage of unlimited American poontang. That would free up the British women to date French guys. Everyone wins.

About two weeks ago as I was deboarding a flight I peeked inside the cockpit and wondered what the f**k all those buttons and knobs and levers are all about. Seriously. Do they really need all of that?

It seems to me that the steering wheel thingamajig does about half of all the things the pilot needs to do: left, right, up, down. Then there’s the ON/OFF for the engines, some throttling, braking, wheels up/down, a few communications functions, maybe some climate controls and a few other odds and ends. But that’s about the same complexity as any car. And I’ll bet your car doesn’t look like the cockpit of a 747.

My theory is that the manufacturer throws in extra knobs and buttons and levers just to charge more. I’m guessing that the majority of aircraft designers, and most of the buyers, are males. I think I speak for all men when I say I would gladly pay extra for knobs and levers that are not attached to anything. I like knobs and levers. Buttons too. And if you toss in a few extraneous digital readouts and dials, I’ll just stand there and drool and hand you my wallet.

As I stood at the open doorway to the Valhalla of unnecessary controls, I began panting with unbridled, genetically induced technology lust. I wanted to drag the pilot out of his uber-cool seat, put on his headphones and start poking and prodding things just to see what happened. Compounding my jealousy was the fact that the pilot and copilot were going through some sort of shut-down procedure that could not have sounded more technologically attractive. I don’t recall the details, but it sounded roughly like this:

Copilot: “Power down the main thruster modules.”

Pilot: “Check.”

Copilot: “Reset the navigation framajam.”

Pilot: “Check.”

Copilot: “Depressurize the tale fin metaskeleton.”

Pilot: “Check.”

Copilot: “Matriculate the walla mung.”

Pilot: “Did you just make that one up?”

Copilot:  “Sometimes I invent names for the buttons that aren’t attached to anything.”

Pilot: “Roger that.”

By then the lady in back of me was jamming the back of my legs with her roller bag, so I had to stop gawking and deplane. Thank goodness the airport had a Brookstone store to take off my edge.