Estimated reading time: 10 minutes
There’s a special kind of American optimism required to run for President. Not the healthy kind. Not the “I believe in the goodness of people” kind. I mean the unhinged, weapons-grade delusion of a man who looks in the mirror, sees a mammal who once forgot the word for “lamp” mid-sentence, and thinks, Yeah. I should have the nuclear codes.
And then that man has to come up with a slogan.
Uh oh.
A campaign slogan is, at its core, a lie you can fit on a hat. It has to be short enough for a bumper sticker but vague enough that it technically means nothing. It has to inspire people who already agree with you and confuse people who don’t into thinking maybe they do too. It’s the linguistic equivalent of a firm handshake from a guy who’s about to sell you a boat that doesn’t float.
The truly impressive thing is that we keep falling for it. Every four years, a new crop of millionaires in rolled-up sleeves stands in front of a crowd and delivers three to five words that mean absolutely nothing, and millions of people go home and put those words on their cars. Right next to the stick figure family. Right next to the “My Kid Is an Honor Student” sticker that is, statistically, also a lie.
Let’s take a walk through some of the weird presidential campaign slogans history has coughed up, shall we?
“Tippecanoe and Tyler Too” (1840)
William Henry Harrison’s legendary slogan, which commemorated a battle most Americans couldn’t find on a map if you spotted them the continent. The “Tyler Too” part was John Tyler, the Vice Presidential candidate, who was essentially a human footnote stapled to the ticket. Harrison won, gave the longest inauguration speech in history in freezing rain without a coat because apparently no one in 1840 understood how weather worked, and died thirty-one days later. Tyler became President. The slogan should’ve been “Tippecanoe and Tyler, Eventually, By Default.”
“Who Is James K. Polk?” (1844)
This was actually used against Polk by his opponents. Imagine being so obscure that your enemy’s entire strategy is just asking if anyone’s heard of you. The wild part? Polk won. He showed up to the White House like a guy who wasn’t on the guest list but walked in with enough confidence that security just let it happen. He then proceeded to annex half of North America because apparently nobody had the authority to stop a man they couldn’t identify in a lineup.
“Ma, Ma, Where’s My Pa?” (1884)
Grover Cleveland’s opponents used this gem after it came out that he’d fathered a child out of wedlock. Cleveland, in possibly the most audacious move in campaign history, just admitted it and kept going. His supporters eventually added, “Gone to the White House, ha ha ha!” Which, say what you will about the politics, is an elite comeback. Today that scandal would generate approximately forty-seven thousand think pieces and a Netflix documentary before lunch on a Tuesday.
“Keep Cool with Coolidge” (1924)
Calvin Coolidge was so boring that his campaign leaned into it like it was a feature. This is the political equivalent of a dating profile that says, “I won’t make you feel anything.” Coolidge was famous for not talking. A woman once told him she’d made a bet that she could get more than two words out of him. He said, “You lose.” That man understood branding.
“I Like Ike” (1952)
Dwight Eisenhower’s slogan worked because it rhymed and because Americans will vote for literally anyone whose name is fun to say. That’s it. That’s the whole strategy. If your name doesn’t rhyme with a common English word, you’re already behind. This is why no one named “Grzywacz” has ever been President.
“Are You Better Off Than You Were Four Years Ago?” (1980)
Ronald Reagan asked America a question, which is a bold move for a slogan because it assumes people are going to think, and brother, that is a gamble. But it worked because in 1980, inflation was eating people’s lunch money and gas cost more than therapy. Reagan basically walked up to a nation having a bad day and said, “This sucks, right?” and America said, “Yeah, actually, it really does,” and elected a movie cowboy.
“A Chicken in Every Pot and a Car in Every Garage” (1928)
Herbert Hoover promised Americans prosperity so specific you could smell the rotisserie. One year later, the stock market collapsed, banks evaporated, and people were standing in bread lines wondering where their chicken went. This is the danger of promising tangible things. You can’t fact-check “Hope” or “Change,” but you can absolutely look in your garage and confirm there is no car in it. Hoover essentially wrote America a check that bounced so hard it caused a decade-long depression. The lesson: always keep your slogans abstract enough that nobody can prove you lied. That’s what separates the weird presidential campaign slogans that work from the ones that age like milk.
“In Your Heart, You Know He’s Right” (1964)
Barry Goldwater’s slogan, which his opponents immediately flipped to “In Your Guts, You Know He’s Nuts” and “In Your Heart, You Know He Might,” referring to his casual attitude toward using nuclear weapons. Goldwater lost in one of the biggest landslides in American history, which is what happens when your campaign slogan accidentally reminds people you might end civilization. The man looked at the Cold War and thought, “This needs more heat.” Lyndon Johnson’s campaign ran an ad of a little girl counting daisy petals before a nuclear explosion, and Goldwater’s team was furious because it was effective and also, technically, not inaccurate.
“Yes We Can” (2008)
Obama’s slogan was so effective that it transcended politics and became a motivational poster you’d find in a dentist’s waiting room. Three words. No specifics. Can what? Doesn’t matter. Yes we can. It’s the slogan equivalent of a confident nod from across a crowded room. You don’t know what it means, but you feel something. Compare this to John McCain’s “Country First,” which sounds less like a campaign slogan and more like instructions for filling out a customs form.
“Make America Great Again” (2016) / “Build Back Better” (2020)
I’m putting these together because they deserve each other. One implies America was great at some unspecified point in the past and just needs to rewind to the good part, like a VHS tape. The other sounds like something a contractor says right before he triples the estimate. Neither slogan actually means anything, which is the whole point. They’re political Mad Libs. Fill in whatever America you want. The genius of modern sloganeering is that it’s become a Rorschach test printed on a hat. You’re not reading a slogan. You’re projecting your entire worldview onto four words and then getting into arguments at Thanksgiving about what the hat means.
So What’s Mine?
Here’s the thing. After spending an unreasonable amount of time cataloging weird presidential campaign slogans, I’ve come to a conclusion. If I were running for President in 2028 (and let me be clear, the only thing I’m currently qualified to lead is a pig back into a pen after she’s escaped for the third time this week) I’d need a slogan that’s honest. Because I’m tired of slogans that promise things no one can deliver. “A New Dawn for America.” Buddy, dawn happens every day. That’s just the Earth rotating. You didn’t do that.
I’ve been workshopping a few:
“Brian 2028: I Don’t Know Either” captures the national mood, acknowledges shared confusion, implies camaraderie through mutual bewilderment. Tested well with focus groups, which were just me and Queso staring at each other across a kitchen table.
“Vote Brian: At Least I’m Being Weird on Purpose” distinguishes me from candidates who are accidentally weird, which is most of them. The American people deserve intentional chaos.
“Make America Mildly Uncomfortable” because that’s really all satire does, and it’s really all any President does. The only question is whether the discomfort is the productive kind or the “why is the economy on fire” kind.
“Brian 2028: The Pig Endorses Me” because in an era of celebrity endorsements, I have one from Trouble McFussbucket, and she has never once been indicted. Can your candidate say that? Can your candidate say any of that?
“I Will Not Make Things Worse on Purpose” is a low bar, yes, but have you seen the competition? I’m offering America a guarantee: any damage I cause to this nation will be entirely accidental. That’s more honesty than you’ve gotten from a politician since Coolidge told that woman she lost a bet.
“Brian 2028: Google Me. Nothing Comes Up. That’s the Point.” In an age where every candidate has a Wikipedia section titled “Controversies” longer than their actual accomplishments, I offer you the refreshing blankness of a man whose most searchable moment is a blog post about his pig eating a doormat. No scandals. Not a single leaked email. No photos of me on a yacht with anyone who’s currently under federal investigation. Just a guy from Virginia whose browser history is mostly “how to keep chickens out of your garden” and “is it normal for a pig to snore that loud.”
“Whose Turn Is It? Not Mine. But Here I Am.” This one’s for the people who are tired of political dynasties, legacy candidates, and the general sense that the presidency is a country club membership being passed around the same twelve families. I have no political lineage. There are no donors. I have a chihuahua with a name longer than most legislation and a novel about government-enhanced otters that I can’t get a literary agent to return my emails about. If that’s not “of the people,” I don’t know what is.
Honestly, though, if I’m being real (and real is a dangerous thing to be in politics) the perfect slogan is the one that makes people stop scrolling for half a second and think, Wait, what? Because that’s what we’ve lost. Not civility, not decorum, not bipartisanship. We’ve lost the ability to be caught off guard by something that isn’t terrible.
We’ve replaced actual thought with team jerseys. Half the country picks a slogan the way they pick a fantasy football lineup: not because they believe in the strategy, but because they drafted the guy and they’re committed now. The other half just wants someone who’ll shut up long enough for them to eat dinner without checking their blood pressure. Neither half is being served by slogans. They’re being managed by them. A good slogan doesn’t inform you. It sedates you just enough to stop asking questions. We haven’t evolved much since the Neanderthals, and I say that with anthropological affection.
So here it is. Final answer. Print the hats:
“Brian 2028: Something Is Deeply Wrong and I Think It Might Be All of Us”
It won’t fit on a bumper sticker. It won’t look great on a yard sign. But it’s the truth, and the truth tastes like pennies, and I’ve already written a whole book about that, so at least I’m consistent.
My first act as President would be to make all campaign slogans subject to a truth-in-advertising review. No more weird presidential campaign slogans that sound inspiring but mean nothing. “Hope and Change” gets audited. “Stronger Together” has to show its math. And anyone caught using the word “freedom” without specifying freedom to do what, exactly gets a fine and a mandatory semester of community college philosophy.
Will I win? Absolutely not. Will I get on a debate stage? Not a chance. Will I be asked to leave a campaign rally that isn’t mine? Almost certainly. But somewhere between the hat and the lawn sign and the attack ad, somebody might read my slogan, furrow their brow, and think for five uninterrupted seconds. And in 2028, that might be the most radical political act left. In the meantime, I’ll be here writing books nobody asked for and making a pig famous against her will.
God bless America. She’s gonna need it.
See my Amazon author page.
His first manuscript was composed entirely of punctuation marks and confused sketches. He's since published "Not Bukowski" (poems that don't rhyme) and "Slop and Swell from a Festering Mind" (essays so concerning that bookstores check on his wellbeing). He once spent three hours photographing a rare bird that turned out to be a plastic bag, and he's the only person banned from church bake sales for "weaponized brownies." Inheriting absurdism from Vonnegut and Adams, sprawling narratives from Irving, and weaponized failure from Moore, he writes about conflicted everymen struggling through supernatural chaos. He remains unconvinced that birds aren't surveillance drones.
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