We could give the president a pink slip, but he might refuse to wear it. He might think that wearing a woman's pink undergarment is too feminine, too unpresidential. He might deem it namby-pamby, or sissified, like something a closet tranvestite politician would do. He might see no reason to put on the pink lingerie, even for a wigged-out party in the Lincoln bedroom.

We could explain, "It's a just a pink slip, a pink dismissal slip, a piece of pink paper relieving you of your national duties. It's a pink diploma from the electoral college."

"I'm no closet homosexual," he might reply. "I shoot gay pigeons. I'm not going around in a pink slip. I don't need the Wigstock vote, the Victoria 's Secret vote, or the Religious Sex vote."

"No, no, you don't understand," we might say, "it's like a pink letter of separation, a pink declaration of our independence, a dismissal slip from Pink Floyd fans."

But we would not be heard, because we would not be granted an audience, not even if we showed up in our own underwear at the Bush ranch, or the White House, or the convention center. No, we would be treated like anarchist nudists, that is, we would be treated rudely, and we would have to wait for another opportunity to deliver our pink slip in solidarity to the man who has no doubt about his sexuality.