Oh Gubernatorial Greatness, we salute your glorious triumph over the forces of evil. Three cheers for Mom Ratchawong Sukhumbhand Paribatra! (Your noble name being a bit on the long side, you’ll forgive us for shouting an abbreviated, but deeply affectionate, “Sukhi! Sukhi! Sukhi!”)

How we enjoyed seeing your jovial and avuncular face plastered all over the city! How we delighted in seeing your graciousness making regular appearances on the front page of our dailies! Some, it is said, even saw your chubby cheeks in the flesh as you traversed the city, rallying the forces of good to your hallowed banner!

But now it’s all over, unfortunately. You must be exhausted by the campaign, and we worry that four years will be barely long enough to sleep it all off. And while we look forward to your quadri-annual resurrection, it will be an awful long time ‘till we meet again. And how we dread that some scheming villains on your own team may try to front another candidate in 2017, just as you reach the pinnacle of your powers, at the ripe young age of 64.

So goes democracy, that most flawed of systems. We too must return our grandmothers to the cryogenic freezer, where we will maintain them looking somewhat alive and non-decomposed, so that they may be dragged to the 2017 elections, big hair and all, to cast their ballot in your favor once more. We know the red tide, its ranks swollen to some 1,077,899 already, will not lie down—and every single vote will count.

Since your success, the weather has cooled and the rains have returned, for nature too weeps at the idea of seeing so little of you in the coming years. Oh untimely winter. Oh great sadness upon the land.

But dare we ask: if we build another half-finished stadium in your honor, Gracious Governor of the Heavens, perhaps you will come sleep in it with us?

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