As poisoned chalices go, becoming President of the United States is a double belladonna with strychnine chaser filled example; an unwieldy goblet overflowing with Lucrezia Borgia's most potent concoction and rimmed with too much salt. All those who drink from its bottomless depths end up clutching their throats mid-sup, lose their grip on the chalice which falls clattering the floor, then stagger and crawl away towards the nearest empty toilet cubicle of history.
Good riddance, you might say. Except that the next drinker from the poisoned chalice almost always makes even more disgusting slurping noises while taking even more greedy gulps than the previous drinker. Alas and alack. If only we could replace the poisoned chalice with a simple paper cup full of nothing but a slightly sour-tasting medicinal tonic. Maybe then the office of President would attract a more noble heart?