The president’s Morning Routine
The president awoke at 07:00 sharp. His manservant Achmed helped him out of his unicorn-themed footie-jammies and into his rainbow-themed exercise togs for his morning workout.
Barack Obama made the long trek from his bedroom to the workout room on the third floor (an agonizing 5 minute trek). He dropped into Lazyboy One, relieved that the arduous journey was over and instructed Najeed (his designated runner) that today they’d do an hour on the treadmill. Najeed begins to jog and Obama leans back in the First Recliner with his iPad and starts up Angry Birds.
Later, after 45 minutes of continually launching birds at those pesky pigs, the Commander-in-Chief (CIC) suffers a painful thumb cramp (for him, a debilitating injury). He made a mental note to check with Senator Kerry (who served in Vietnam) about the qualifications necessary for a Purple Heart. If Kerry got his for a paper cut, he ought to get one for a thumb cramp.
Now partially disabled, he is breathing heavily, worn out by the taxing exercise. “Phew, that’s enough Najeed.” He grabbed a sparkling white Presidential towel to dry his sweat. He always felt invigorated by watching a pinch-runner jog, and he convinced himself that he could feel the burn of a good workout.
He returned to the presidential quarters, was hosed down quickly and purred as Achmed toweled him off; it was good to be the king. Achmed helped him into his tidy-blackies (no tidy-whities for this simulated black man), followed by a crisp white shirt and trousers. He smiled at what would come next. He always enjoyed the part when Achmed had to position his “equipment” to dress him to the left. Sometimes he even had Achmed move it around a few extra times, just it would be just right. Even when positioning his man-parts, Obama felt that the only right place was the far left.
He slipped on the pre-knotted light blue tie and tightened it up. Finally came the jacket; he checked himself out in the mirror – he beamed – what a stud he was! He looked sharp. He almost glowed. Even though he knew that the halo was just painted on the mirror, the overall image just looked so right.
Even though his custom HSM suit cost more than an average person’s house payment, it was just icing on the cake – and he was the cake. He liked the way he looked – he guaranteed it.
Breakfast with the Family
It was time for a healthy breakfast with the First Crone, Malia and Sasha.
It had gotten to where he dreaded breakfast. He was getting pretty fed up with Michelle’s healthy eating crusade. Her breakfast menu now included dry rice cakes with a smear of something unidentifiable, pancakes with arugula syrup, kale turnovers and crap like that. The high spot of his breakfast meal was his bowl of un-sugared Cherrios with skim milk.
But today, something was different.
In place of the president’s usual bowl of specially made Cherrios (in the shape and colors of his campaign logo); Executive Chef “Cris” Comerford had decided to surprise the president with something a little different. She thought that it was a good idea for the Commander in Chief to experience the same breakfast fare that our armed forces enjoyed.
Obama’s press secretary had suggested it, thinking that the picture could appear in all the national press with a caption that said: “The President Eating Just like Our Troops – Enjoying the Same Breakfast.”
So she served him Creamed Chipped Beef on Toast.
[For those who may not know, Creamed Chipped Beef on Toast is known as SOS, or “shit on a shingle” by our military – those poor souls to whom it was served.]
Before he even tasted it, he rebelled at the sight of it, “It looks like someone barfed on my plate. What is this god-awful shi… stuff,” Obama demanded of Abdul, the server.
“It’s called shit on a shingle, sir.”
Abdul was innocently unaware that the dish was given that name by U.S. military men as a derogatory description of its taste and likely ingredients.
Michelle gasped at hearing the “s” word in her White House.
Michelle jumped on his reply, “Abdul, we don’t use that word in here.”
“Which word, ma’am, shit or shingle?”
“Shi…, no, not the shingle word, the other one, ok?”
“As you wish, ma’am, as-salamu alaykum,” (which means, “peace on you” or something like that).
Michelle glared at Abdul. One more screw-up like that and he’d be following Bo around the grounds, picking up the dog’s First Poops (known as “doody duty).”
Obama couldn’t believe that he, the president, had been subjected to first, grits, and now shit on a shingle. Didn’t these people realize that he was the president? Would Buckingham Palace serve that “crap on cardboard” to the Queen? Would Putin be expected to eat “poop on a plate?”
He pushed away from the table and decided to forego the shi.. stuff on a shingle. He would rather admit that his birth certificate was fake rather than eat that swill.
It was time to go to work.
Obama’s Work Morning
Fortunately, his commute avoided the bumper-to-bumper traffic, the road rage, the tolls and exhaust fumes faced by so many ordinary workers; he didn’t even have to worry about a parking place or being late. He simply saunters over to the West Wing and into the Oval Office, arriving at 9:00, or 9:30, or 10-ish, or whenever – it was good to be the king.
A pile of colored folders were already in place on the Resolute desk, the top one is bright red – the vitally important National Security Summary. He pushes it aside and grabs the New York Times thinking that the national security stuff is just too stressful to read – he’d clear his thinking buffer by reading some good political news first.
He goes to the Politics section to check his latest poll numbers.
His approval numbers had dropped to 39%!
“What is this shit?” “How can this be?” Had someone in his administration leaked the truthabout Benghazi? Or about his visit with soul mate John Kerry aboard the Isabel? What could have caused such a dramatic drop? He was at 50% just last week.
“DENIS!” His Chief of Staff’s first name echoed throughout the West Wing. “Get in here.”
Denis McDonough appeared desk-side immediately. “Yes, Mr. president?”
“What is going on? Look at this article! My poll numbers from yesterday are worse than Al Frankens. What happened? Is it something we can blame on George Bush?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. I’m sorry to say that there’s bad stuff all over the Internet and some of it has been featured on Drudge this week, like Rush Limbaugh saying that you pee sitting down.”
“What if I do; it’s more comfortable, besides, that damn thing is hard to aim, I get tired of trying to keep from peeing on the wall and sometimes I pee on Michelle’s fuzzy slippers and she HITS me!”
“Well, Mr. president, there’s more. They know about your doll collection.”
“They’re NOT DOLLS, they’re BARBIE ACTION FIGURES!”
“I know, I know, sir, but remember last week when Barbie had a campout?”
“Somehow, we don’t know how they got it, but someone posted a video of Barbie and Midge spanking a naked Ken dol … er, action figure – and he was tied up – and you can be heard narrating the activities.”
“It wasn’t me! I was somewhere else doing other stuff.”
“And it gets worse … the video has gone viral with over 250,000 hits so far.”
“How did they know? How did they find me? That was supposed to be a secret.” Obama looked genuinely hurt. That was supposed to be his private time with Ken and the girls.
“Sir, I know that this might sound paranoid, but the Secret Service has a suspicion that someone may have planted a GPS beacon “up there” when you had that colonoscopy last April. If that’s the case, they can always find you; they will always know where you are.”
“The Secret Service guys want to scan you.”
“They’re also suspicious of the iPhony, that “special” iPhone that Ted Cruz sent you. You know he doesn’t like you.”
Obama sits slowly and drops his head on the Resolute desk and begins to slowly pound the desk (MMA-style).
“Why is this happening to me – TO ME? I’m just a hard working black man trying to get ahead and those bastards can’t stand it – they’re all racists.”
“Cancel everything else and get Holder in here. I’ll teach those racist crackas who is boss. All of my troubles are just because I’m black.”
“But sir, you’re half white too.”
“Never mention that again, my black half talks nonstop over my white half so I never have to hear him; he’s all logic and facts anyway. Whitey always disagrees with Blackie so he must be racist too.”
We’re Watching You
In an instant, Eric Holder was standing in front of the president.
“How’d you get here so fast? I just called for you?”
“Er … I just guessed that you might want to talk to me. And I think we should talk privately.”
“Everybody out and shut the doors.”
As soon as the room was clear, “Mr. president, you are bugged.”
“Well … that’s a long story … and you’re not going to like it.”
“Spit it out, man. The Republicans? Bush? Hillary? Who?”
“Er … you remember that colonoscopy you had?”
“Well, Mr. president, we all got together, you know, the FBI, CIA, the NSA and Justice. We all got together and decided that for security reasons we needed to know where you were and with whom at all times. This was for your own security, of course. So, we bugged you.”
“My own people bugged me?”
“I’m afraid so. And we’re pretty proud of the technology too. We have connected with your optic nerves and the nerve impulses from your auditory system, so we see and hear what you see and hear. And of course, we’ve also got the GPS coordinates of where you are at all times.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing. You would do this to the president of the United States? And don’t give me that security bullshit. We all know that it was just a convenient excuse to spy on conservative citizens … but ME?”
“Well we were a little skittish about it at first, but you know that it really has already paid off. We have so much dirt on you that you’ll have to resign, supposedly to spend more time with your family. We have a few accidents planned to “thin the herd,” and I’ll run for President in 2016 – and win.”
Barack Hussein Obama slowly sat down. He was drained of all color – almost white now.
Holder described what would happen if he refused to resign. They’d dribble out new leaks every Monday morning until the Republican House had enough evidence to impeach him. If he left office in disgrace, no one would hire him, he wouldn’t get speaking jobs, he’d be destitute. He might even have to go on unemployment.
The president looked defeated, the cockiness was gone, the bravado was gone, his ego reduced to nothing – what would he do?
In desperation, he noticed that for once his black half was silent and his white half spoke up. It only whispered:
“I told you so.”