357 channels and nothing on

NOW WE HAVE global wetting to deal with, a long February shower that rinses the rooftops and Jacuzzis the lawn. What a relief. I’ve been predicting global wetting for years. Even wrote a book about it back when I was first putting together my presidential campaign (“An Inconvenient Flood,” in bookstores everywhere).

At our house, this global wetting comes just in time, for the little guy’s ears are due a thorough cleaning. In the rain, I just tilt his head one way, then the other as we’re out walking the dog and stomping through puddles.

Occasionally, in drier times, I have to pin the little guy to a pillow with a washcloth in hand. It’s like branding sheep. He squirms, he worms. I calm him by explaining that the men in our family have always had issues with excessive ear wax, which if left unchecked can squeeze the brain and damage your hearing.

“OK, Daddy,” he finally says.

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘OK, Daddy.’ ”

“Huh?”

He doesn’t really get the joke, but he smiles that Opie Taylor smile of his anyway. He’s all brown eyes and freckles, this kid. When I reach the White House, I’m hoping he’ll be like John-John, goofing around under my Oval Office desk when the AP photographer just happens by.

By the way, my campaign platform is simple and direct, which is more than you can expect from those career politicians you’ve been seeing so much of lately. They seem almost villainous to me when they get a microphone in their mitts. If you listen carefully, you’ll discover that they are about nothing. Not me. I am the not-for-nothing candidate.

Here are some of the first things I will do when you elect me as your next president:

* Promote global wetting.

* Ban cellphones in Trader Joe’s.

* Place a moratorium on new medical shows.

I feel especially strong about this medical show moratorium. Lately, we all seem hard-pressed to find anything on the tube that doesn’t involve lovesick doctors or the chemistry of murder.

In fact, let’s see what’s on TV right now:

Click: A crime show autopsy.

Click: Another crime show autopsy.

Click: Someone is flushing a corpse with what appears to be Mountain Dew; the camera glides through the corpse’s veins as if zooming downhill on one of those snow saucers. Then it enters the liver.

Click: A Lakers game. No one passes the ball. No one plays defense. I think I’m getting chest pains.

Click: “Earth, Wind & Fire” in concert. I think Earth and Wind are dead now. But Fire still sounds pretty good.

Click: A sitcom starring Jim Belushi, in which a flatulent pregnant woman goes all gassy on the couch. It is one more proud, shining moment in the history of a great medium, one that gave us Sid Caesar, Carl Reiner and Steve Martin.

Click: “Can we eat now?” asks Rachael Ray.

I love Rachael Ray. She is like that drunk girl in college who would always scream at bartenders. She likes to eat and she likes to talk about eating, often at the same time. I suspect Ray could find food anywhere. Were she ever to meet the pope, her first words would be, “Your Holiness honey, any nachos in this here Vatican?”

Click: “Grey’s Anatomy.”

Now, you have to understand this about “Grey’s Anatomy”: It is the show that women use to punish us for watching too much football. It’s a soap opera masquerading as a medical show. There’s this skinny blond in it, Grey, who’s always showing off her anatomy, hence the title. Seriously, she behaves like the trampy girls you wish you knew better in the 9th grade.

Then there’s this doctor 20 years her senior who might be a bigger tramp than she is. But see, that’s still a common female fantasy, finding a rich doctor who appreciates the importance of good hair product. The American McDream.

One big reason I don’t get into “Grey’s Anatomy” is that most doctors I’ve known aren’t dreamy hunks. Most doctors I know are named Seymour and look like they’ve never been exposed to sunlight, let alone the tender touch of a wonderful woman. Most doctors, the good ones anyway, seem to get all their protein from vending machines. Their posture isn’t very good, and their skin’s a little clammy.

Hey, I think I just described me!

Click, click, click, click, click....

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. See more on his presidential bid at myspace.com/chriserskine.