I’m taking time today out of my busy schedule of flying extremely loud planes past air traffic control towers, ironing my tight white uniform, playing with the boys, and struggling with my issues with my old man Duke Mitchell to address a significant problem. It has been brought to my attention that Senator John McCain is being lauded as a “maverick” for his vote against the partial repeal of the Affordable Care Act. I have to say that I find this confusing, and not just confusing like that time I was asked to read a book by a woman.

I am Maverick. Me. It says so right there in the script for Tony Scott’s fine 1986 film about the high jinks at an elite fighter weapons school in Miramar, California. And in the opening credits. And at the end. I am certain that I’m Maverick — and that Senator McCain is not – as my name is written on all my clothes, on my locker, and I’m pretty sure also in my underwear, but my mom is responsible for that.

And what has Senator McCain done to deserve this illustrious designation? Okay, he scared a hell of a lot of people by casting a critical vote that allowed Republicans to move forward with the vote on the Affordable Care Act. Yes, no question. That was ballsy like that time I spent an entire afternoon playing with my balls. But is it enough to be a maverick?

He was a pilot. Fine. His list of accomplishments is long and distinguished, like Slider’s johnson. But about the whole ultimately-voting-against-the-partial-repeal thing, well: I watched the video of him casting his vote, and I hear no rousing anthem by composer Harold Faltermeyer. I’m not aware that Senator McCain has a motorcycle or goes out drinking in target-rich environments. I’m not aware that he has a wingman or a tragically dead best friend (pour one out for Goose). I’m not aware that he has taken the highway to the danger zone. All of these things are required – and are indeed the bare minimum — for being a maverick.

So in case some of you wonder who the best is, it’s not Senator McCain. He is so not on the wall that Tom Skerritt talks about.

I mean, great balls of fire.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a maverick is “an unbranded calf or yearling.” Oh, wait: hold on. There are different definitions here – like a whole list with numbers and everything. Let me find the right one. Okay. It is “an unorthodox or independent-minded person: a person who refuses to conform to the views of a particular group or party; an individualist.” So in other words: me, me, me. That’s right. I may just look like a pretty face, but I’m more than your now-disturbing childhood crush. I read the dictionary, too.

I think I should say something about masculinity, a subject that Top Gun treats with delicacy. It has also been brought to my attention that two Republican lady senators voted against the repeal, but they are not being called “mavericks.” This is good. (Although I don’t know what their actual names are.) Women are not mavericks, especially not women who are disappointingly consistent in their behavior and views — rather than “dangerous,” a term that has been applied to me once or twice by men in towels. Women are great when they tuck their fluffy blonde hair under baseball caps, but also sometimes wear stockings with those lines up the back, and when they are your instructor and have sex with you in silhouette with a lot of tongues, but I have little use for them apart from that.

In conclusion, I hope you will reconsider applying this term to Senator John McCain as it constitutes an encroachment on my identity-slash-intellectual-property. He does not take my breath away.