THE SCENE: The Democratic National Convention. The year: 2010.

Scheduled to nominate the Democratic presidential candidate is Jimmy Carter, the last Democrat to be president. Carter makes his way to the podium with the aid of a cane. He walks with a stoop, like the old man he is.

"The American people have suffered enough in 30 years of the Reagan-Bush-Quayle-Kemp administration," Carter says. "It's time to take America back from the destructive, visionless Republicans."

As Carter drones on, the delegates mill around on the floor like Boy Scouts at a jamboree or insurance salespeople at an annual get-together in Las Vegas. They trade signs. They trade Walter Mondale stories. ("When my mother was in the hospital, Fritz Mondale sent her the most beautiful letter. That man is a saint.")

The seating area for the Guam delegation is empty--they've all gone out for hot dogs at a stand outside the Convention hall.

Suddenly, Carter raises his voice. The delegates stop milling around and start listening. The Guam delegates grab their hot dogs and head for their seats.

"The man who will take back America is our next president, Our Next President!" Carter said.

The Democrats collectively gasp. It is stroke of genius. What better way to get a Democrat in the White House than to nominate a candidate who is actually named "Our Next President?"

WHEN IT COMES time for the dramatic roll call of the states, the votes are over-whelming.

"Wisconsin, home of cheese, casts all of its 40 votes for the next president of the United States, Our Next President!"

"Rhode Island, home of Brown University, the Newport Mansions and not much else, casts three votes for the next president of the United States of America, Our Next President!"

"Florida, the Sunshine State, home of citrus fruit, Walt Disney World and fabulous beaches and palm trees, casts 65 votes for the next president of the United States of America, Our Next President!"

They say it over and over again. It becomes their mantra. "Our Next President, Our Next President." Squeezing their eyes shut, and trying very, very hard, the delegates can almost make themselves believe it.

Then Our Next President arrives, waving to the crowd and pointing with hand gestures carefully rehearsed before a mirror and heavily influenced by a videotape of John F. Kennedy, who, according to the polls, still has high ratings with women voters.

With Our Next President is Our Next First Lady, dressed in a red, white and blue dress and gazing admiringly at her husband. She waves in a manner carefully rehearsed and refined during the grueling primary campaign.

The band blares "Stars and Stripes Forever." The delegates wave tiny American flags. And above it all, the video wall goes wild.

ALSO ABOVE IT ALL is Howie President, age 12, who, by virtue of his distant relation to Our Next President, had snared the coveted job of balloon dropper at the 2010 Democratic National Convention.

Howie has been given strict instructions not to drop any balloons until the next night, when his third cousin, Our Next President, gives his acceptance speech.

But strict instructions are easy to forget from Howie's lofty perch high above all the excitement. In fact, Howie is so enraptured by the Convention hoopla that he loses his balance and accidentally pulls the string that sends 80,000 balloons sailing toward the convention floor. (At least, that's the way he explains it to reporters later on.)

There is a momentary twinge of regret in Howie's young heart. He realizes that he has messed up his job. But then he looks down on the thousands of colorful balloons and the shiny brass instruments of the band. He sees the happy, smiling faces of Our Next President and Our Next First Lady and the Democrats below. Howie President suddenly feels a surge of happiness.

"It doesn't get any better than this," Howie thinks, in the words of a beer commercial. The beer in question is made by a corporation that is sponsoring a party later that night.

Ira E Stoll was in New York last week covering the Democratic National Convention.