Heaven knows, Democrats these days have enough to worry about without us dropping our dos centavos into their little tin cups. As the impending presidential sweepstakes draw near, the party finds itself awash in lackluster and improbable candidates and has yet to find even a hint of a resonant message. Add to that its traditional inclination toward self-immolation, and it's obvious that the party of the Blue States needs all the help it can get--whatever the provenance.
 
It is on this wise that your W Team offers the Democratic National Committee advice that, while it will not lead to victory--we're not miracle-workers, you know--might at least keep their margin of loss to within 30 or so points.
 
Here in a nutshell (eerily appropriate packaging) is the crux of our counsel.
 
Democrats! Do not hesitate! Begin immediately to ensure that your standard-bearer for 2004 is Al Sharpton! Yes! The Reverend Al!
 
However, that is only half, or perhaps less, of your task. He must be made to see that the only possible choice of running mate is the one, the only, none other than... Anna Nicole Smith! Yes! The Angel of the Proletariat! Capitalism's long-delayed comeuppance!
 
We intuit your question: why is this idea not insane? Here is why this idea is not insane:
 
In the previous presidential election, George Bush, an incurious man of approximate intelligence and unruffled experience, was joined in epic battle with Al Gore the worldly intellectual and passionate idealist, the articulate advocate of global remediation, and hero to a generation. It was a contest that had something of the aspect of a grudge match between a bantam rooster and an Allosaurus.
 
As the traditional debates drew near liberals around the world leaned close to their televisions and rubbed their hands together in gleeful anticipation of the carnage to come.
 
But an odd thing happened on the way to the Democratic landslide: So stark was the mismatch between the two men that voters began to suspect they had missed something. The mere presence of a candidate of Mr. Gore's merits logically implied the existence of similar--albeit well concealed--qualities in his opponent. And so whichever attributes Mr. Bush lacked were cheerfully conferred upon him by generous voters--many of whom had completed high school. Thus Mr. Bush's tofu took on the flavor of Mr. Gore's steak.
 
And then the Allosaurus began to lose confidence.
 
But no such dynamic obtains in the match we envision. First, it will be obvious that a ticket comprising the voluble Mr. Sharpton and the voluminous Ms. Smith is at best equal to the Republican slate, if not actually in its deficit. This time the mercy vote will go to the Democrats.
 
Second, liberal candidates are blessed with a quality of civility and nuanced deliberation that is virtually indistinguishable from paralysis. This is not, we are happy to say, a block over which Republicans are apt to stumble. We sweep aside the shades of gray and moral subjunctives to focus on the hard, clear goal of getting whatever it is we want. For us the main thing is winning. The only thing we like more than winning is winning twice.
 
As a result, Republican political organizations tend to be--and we say this with only the deepest respect and affection--mean; and if Democrats ever hope to win again they will need to be as mean as we are. This is where Ms. Smith comes in.
 
It is almost axiomatic among eminent scholars and philosophers the world over that Anna Nicole Smith is mean enough for two. Through the years the ex-stripper has managed to claw her way, bloody inch by bloody inch, over the surface of the earth to achieve a tenuous grip on something approaching self-esteem. Ms. Smith has suffered, and now it is everyone else's turn.
 
Each week her eponymously-named television show, with an audience that must number well into the hundreds, follows the dumpy diva as she abuses her staff, belittles store clerks, humiliates hangers-on, and, in general undermines the will to live of all who fall under her shadow.
 
For these reasons, vice-presidential debates with Ms. Smith will be unusually brief. She will take the podium and train her tiny laser eyes on her opponent. There will be a sudden puff of smoke at that end of the hall, and then she will go home.
 
The Reverend Mr. Sharpton will bring similarly deadly abilities to the presidential debates. The Pentecostal parson is famous for his ability to talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk, and then, fearing that no one is listening--and no one is--to say it all again without pausing for breath.
 
In this light the Reverend Sharpton may be regarded as a deadly thing, a Weapon of Mass Ennui that no ordinary opponent can withstand. Mr. Bush, who has considerable difficulty negotiating even cogent argument may find himself utterly put to sea by the Reverend's convoluted style of expression, in which the point of his disquisition is often saved for the end of his speech--or until the following Thursday. Faced with such a challenge the President might sink like a house built on oatmeal.
 
Finally, In addition to their considerable strengths as a team, Mr. Sharpton and Ms. Smith both possess the gift of nearly pathological self-preoccupation--the sine qua non of politics.
 
And so again we say, Sharpton! Smith! The Democratic Party could do a lot worse.
 
And probably will.