[ Note: Thanks for all the great feedback!!! I reformatted my file and published as an ebook on Smashwords.com!!! A little glitchy, it is out there, but awaits their review process. They have a backlog and need two weeks. – Kevin ]
President Whosis: Gaga 4 Obama?
Political Satire by Kevin Feingold
Part Two
A + +
Salami is Dead
Hoopla Hoops
American Default Blues
Building A Nation
Michele Bachmann Does Reagan
SOTU
***
From the desk of Blackie Diamond
Memoir A + +
People be idiots! Americans have a food fight over my birth certificate— I was born in a hot air balloon over New Mexico— but they completely miss the boat regarding Tamara. She my KGB lover. Or the fact that we got a capuchin monkey living in the family quarters of the White House. The American people know I smoke cigarettes, but they remain mercifully oblivious to my other addictions: popcorn, porno films and my foot fetish.
America, where you at?
When I met Tamara at Accidental College, she was already KGB. Accidental is the two-year junior college in Queens that grinds along on a yearly endowment from Accidental Life. Y’know, the ones with the blimp. Again, really, hell-o! Accidental Life shows great skill at collecting premiums, but should you— God forbid!— ever suffer a catastrophe, just try to get a penny out of Accidental Life. Never happen.
It’s called capitalism. You saves up for a rainy day, and when the flood come, the bank done gone out of business! That why we got the FDIC, to ensure that you gets your money. DON’T SAY YOU WANT LESS GOVERNMENT, people! What you wants is justice!
Needing Tamara around on a daily basis— for both consensual sex and hormone injections— I had her assigned to Dr. Tesler, the White House physician, as his nurse. Calm down! Tamara is a registered nurse. The KGB made sure she had some profession, besides being a spy.
Why I require hormone treatments? I was too much of a swordsman in my youth. Done too many drugs. By the time I became a senator, I had shot my wad. I got to Wash, DC, I would visit Tamara at the beauty salon downtown where she worked. Olden days, the procedure was exceedingly primitive: She took me into the back room and shot my scrotum full of Spanish fly. Smugglers brought the stuff up from Mexico. Thanks to advances in the pharmaceutical industry— which now owns half of Congress— I currently receive both testosterone and steroids. Yeah, I knows the testosterone can lead to prostate cancer, but which you want, impotency or the Big C? Yes, Viagra will take me there, but what happen when I arrives? Nothin’! No arrows in my quiver, Katniss! I see it as a quality of life thing: I can live longer, but is the life worth livin’?
The deal I made with the SVR (Sluzhba Vnezhney Razvedki), the Russkie foreign intelligence service— the inheritors of the KGB— is that Tamara won’t scatter eavesdropping bugs around the White House. If she do that, I lose my nurse. Instead, within reason, I provide the Russians with blow by blow updates of what’s happening in the White House. Our White House. They have a “White House” too, their Hall of Deputies, built by an Italian contractor and shelled during the upheaval against Boris Yeltsin in 1993. The current Russian premier isn’t entirely happy over our arrangement, but he’s not unhappy either. He’s like me. In modern life, everything remains ambiguous, a matter of nuance rather than hard and fast principle. Nothing is black and white. Like me, neither one nor the other.
Computers demand a “yes” or “no” answer. The premier and I prefer to remain flexible. That way I can change the rules at my leisure. I’M THE DUDE WHO CLAIMS HE’S ABOVE PARTISAN POLITICS AND THEN GOES OUT ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL AND LAMBASTS HIS OPPONENTS MERCILESSLY.
As my Scottish forebears used to say: “Nemo me impune lacessit.“ No one attacks me with impunity.
I be a man of peace who wield a battle ax.
That’s called flexibility.
They teach you that in Singapore: The palm tree must bend to the typhoon. Otherwise, it gets uprooted.
REELECT ME! I don’t want to get uprooted.
*
The biggest pain in my backside be my contact at the Russian Embassy. Boris Slivovich, he is totally 1970’s, a drunk. Every G-8 and G-12 Summit, I ask the premier, “Hey, Vlad, when you gonna replace Slivovich?” And every summit, Vlad blows me off.
Although the American people don’t know that Tamara Bukarova crawl all over me like I be a jungle gym, I am sure people would be grateful if they knew. Thanks to her, I ain’t getting involved with no intern!!! After what happened with Monica Lewinsky, no prez gonna let that happen.
I got two daughters of my own.
With a budget deficit of $15 trillion, you would think that wages to hire a few competent interns wouldn’t send Congress into the stratosphere. But it do. So we in the W.H. continue to rely on volunteers.
An entire crew— all ages— opens letters addressed to the president, the first lady, the presidential daughters, even our bulldog Winston Churchill. 93% of them letters be critical of this administration. I ignores them letters, I cannot govern under a barrage of carping criticism. Silencio!
Personally, I give this administration an A++ in governance. My opinion.
Now, the letter staff, they be instructed to pass along only those letters containing positive suggestions, such as “Use an Eastern White Pine from Georgia for the next National Christmas Tree” or “Serve borscht at the White House when entertaining Russian guests.” That last one come from the Russian ambassador. Okay, Ivan, I can take a hint!
Monica was the worst thing that could happen to the world of interns. Now, 99% of the applicants be pretty, young ladies with secret wet dreams of makin’ it bigtime with the presidential wiener. They rub up against the front of my pants whenever they deliver papers to the Oval Orifice. I give specific instructions, “They not supposed to be in here!” Wily little ladies— ewig weibliche, forever feminine— they either con the Secret Service dudes to let them make their delivery or, worse, they march in through the pantry. You come in through the pantry, only Ramirez, the Filipino steward, there to try to stop you. He can’t even keep Winston Churchill the bulldog from invading my office!
“Hi-i-i-i, Mr. President,” these young interns, lookin’ about 16, sing. They take mincing little steps across the carpet, waving their papers at me.
“I on the phone!” I explain, sitting behind my desk, receiver pressed to my ear.
“Oh, okay, here!” they say, dropping the paper(s) on my desk and climbing into daddy’s lap to suck my fingers and massage my peter with their tight little behinds. Ouch! ‘Course I get a hard-on! Who wouldn’t?
“NO MORE INTERNS IN MY OFFICE!” I tell Axl, my Chief of Staff.
“Right, boss,” he say, the ninny. I know, tomorrow, still another one of these princesses is gonna make a play for my cock. I don’t see, under the list of presidential duties, “Satisfying the sexual proclivities of promiscuous female interns.” Good God, y’all!
I solve the problem! My Chief of Staff was on my case about Malcolm Tinker, my body double, being under-employed. “He’s bored,” Axl complained, “so he interrupts everyone else’s workday to shoot the breeze.”
I got a brainstorm: When not representing me at motorcades and televised public events like ballgames, I got Malcolm spending his days frolicking in the Rose Garden with the young, female interns. ¡Avante!Mission accomplished.
When the wife and I resided in Denver, next door lived Bob and Marcy Sandcastle. Bob was okay, but Marcy was one neurotic woman. They being white, she weren’t too happy having “Soweto people”— as she called us— right next door. Marcy have two daughters, Pam and Diggie. I never did find out Diggie’s real name. The girls grows up an’ goes off to college. Come the summer, one night I rollin’ the garbage receptacle out to the curb for morning pickup. Who standin’ on the sidewalk sneakin’ a cigarette but Pam. She as neurotic as her mama, this the entire neighborhood know. I seen her sittin’ in a car next to her beefy all-American boyfriend. Girl beautiful as a fashion model, thin figure, long red hair, gorgeous face, glamorous complexion. All she do is sulk. She sit in the car sulking. She neurotic, she sulk.
“Hi-i-i-i, Uncle Blackie,” she say this night, drawing out the words like slow molasses, that flaming red hair flowing about her head. Shee-it. What she comin’ on to me for?
“Yeah, hello to you!” I woof and hightail back inside my house.
My point being, I do know what I’m doin’. Experto credite, believe one who has had experience. Trust me on this one!
They call my administration “the perpetual campaign.” As if I give a hoot what the pundits call it! Listen, my daddy taught me to wave my arms and modulate my voice. I do the old hoodoo on folks. Americans, with their emphasis on youth, are emotional in ways that the jaundiced, cynical Europeans no longer experience. Paul had his epiphany on the road to Damascus, founded a religion, and wrote to the people of Corinth. I spent a lifetime getting ready for this, my moment. I practiced my con in college and later in the ‘hood. Nobody can teach me nothin’. I arrived. I’m teachin’ them a pointer or two. A-holes! Kiss my butt! Y’all watch me now!
*
When I ran for senator, one of the first things I learned was that you don’t need to take campaign contributions. Your own money will suffice. For example, Thadeus Williams of the paper industry lobby wanted to be sure of my support regarding paper mills. Open pit coal mining, paper mills, fracturing for natural gas, and running atomic reactors all produce a total pollution of the environment. I call it “the dead fish syndrome.” Anything that kills fish, that is pollution. Instead of a campaign contribution, Thadeus purchased my car for $100,000.
Unfortunately, Thadeus ended up in jail on a RICO statute. Something is wrong with this nation when a man can’t even enjoy his ill-gotten gains! My opinion.
That incident in Denver where somebody make off with $10,000 in cash from the campaign office safe and the election authorities come ‘round to ask me what I knows? I don’t knows dick! I gets home after a hard day at the campaign office and my wife, she say, “Mix yourself a drink, honeybear, and come give yo’ wife a hug!” I do that little thing. Surprise! I finds the moneys stuck in my wife’s bra!
I run for president. We wins the election and arrives inna White House and it look just like in the movies! I gets led into the Oval Ovary to see the then-sitting prez, Mr. Peter “Pretzel” Brush. While he briefed me on the world situation, I’m diggin’ the gold carpet with the presidential seal! Just getting into the whole nine yards of it. Yowzah!
Le roi est mort, vive moi. The king is dead, long live me!
“Daddy! Daddy!” the girls are callin’. My wife and kids are checkin’ out the living quarters: the indoor pool, the sauna, the tanning salon… Yeah, right! Like coffee-colored peoples need a tanning salon! Shee-it.
*
Y’all think this a campaign biography, you wrong! I just tryin’ to tell my side of the story. My opponent, Mick Rodney, may be a fool— criticizing the British at the London Olympics, when a bromide or two would have done the job— but I got the entire Republican Party arrayed agin me. I gonna need yo’ help t’make this presidential election a success. And I don’t mean in voter turnout. I mean in votes cast— FOR ME!!! Ask my wife, even she campaigning on my behalf. That’s desperation!
I a nice person.
I be smarter than everyone else.
My life a compelling personal narrative.
I a great leader.
My wife be prettier than your’n.
Bet you can’t name three people who lost their jobs!
Looking back at the last three and a half years, there be nothing I would do over.
America IS exceptional, just look at me!
I a b-boy! I be America’s first breakdancing president! Watch my moves.
I went to private school an’ learn Latin.
I am my own ultimate weapon.
What’s not to reelect?
*
Just recently, as I said in a speech— and bragged about on my weekly video address— I played my 100th round of golf as president! Something of a duffer, I’m out there hacking away, I can assure you. Still, the 7th is such a short hole, 173 yards, the green bracketed by bunkers, I decide to use a 5-iron off the tee. I still reach the green in one. Man, I love that par-3 seventh! I got a six handicap, but come on, I be president. I can’t play often enough to get good.
My caddy is a pale little wallflower named Jerry Kowalski. The good news be, he fully— but fully— vetted by the FBI. This dude vanilla, through and through. The three things he does well are (1) carry my bag, (2) suggest which club to use and (3) interpret the green. Some of the greens at Congressional are tricky, tha’s all I’m sayin’.
Then one afternoon, he follow me behind the clubhouse. I think I’m walkin’ to the armored SUV. “Whassup, Jerry?” I ask. Next thing I know, the man’s kissing me, his tongue in my mouth! Where’d that come from? I tell the two Secret Service guys to station themselves around each corner of the building, facing outward. “I’m in conference with my caddy. You see anybody comin’, you give a holler!”
“Okay, Chief!” they tell me.
“Jerry, whassa matter wid you?”
“I love you, Mr. President,” he stammers. “I’ve always loved you, sir!’
I knows where he coming from. Hearing the national anthem or “Hail to the Chief” pushes the hot button in all of us, the hot button that tells us, “Respect and love the president.” Half the country loves and adulates the prez in any election cycle. It’s enough he be a Democrat or a Republican, he has the adulation of his party.
“When I walk behind you,” Jerry explains, “watching your muscular ass through the tight tan fabric of your golf slacks— “
“I got it! You love me!” I tell him.
“When I see the bulge of your package as you’re about to putt— “
“Jerry, I got it! ‘Kiss my balls, make my putz go straight.’ It’s an old joke.”
“Can’t we grab this moment of pleasure for ourselves?” he asks, exhaling in a rush.
Now, good caddies are hard to find. Good caddies who, additionally, have been vetted and cleared by the FBI are even rarer. I nod my head.
As his trembling fingers fumble open my zipper and he eagerly coaxes me into an erection, a single glance at his pale, panting face assures me that Jerry the Caddy is more afraid of me and the Secret Service than he is of CBS News. As he and I watch my seed spurting across the grass, I feel a kinship with this most trusted of servants.
“I want you to come and dine with my family and me in the East Wing of the White House,” I tell him as he tucks me in and zips me up. “We won’t mention this, uh, episode, of course, but you’ll like my daughters. They’re a lot of fun to talk to.”
“Oh, yes. Please,” Jerry gushes, blushing scarlet.
He is mine!
See, I try to do something nice! And what happens? My press secretary, Artie Lengl, gets tipped off by the FBI that Jerry Kowalski, a k a Jerry the Caddy, is in a reality TV series. “Starring” isn’t the right word, but he’s participating. A TV crew be dogging his every step. I get word that they are filming him getting hisself a manicure at a beauty parlor, prior to joining me and my family at the White House fo’ din-din. “Show us your invite,” the host o’ the show says. Jerry bats his little eyelashes and replies, “I don’t have one. I was invited by the president himself.” Ass-hole!
Reality TV is no friend of this administration. Barfek and Ukulele Salami crashed a state dinner and we never heard the end of it. It was a dark, blustery evening and we were made to look like fools! Congress, the public and the press howled for blood! I had to dismiss a perfectly good appointments secretary to appease the angry mob. So when I hear about this latest gaffe, I telephone a man regarding a dead skunk. “Nema problema,” he assures me.
They are still filming when Jerry takes the escalator down into the Dupont Circle Metro. This I do not like. Everyone knows what a Dupont Circle address signify: You gay! And damn if that escalator don’t lose its grip, go wild, and deposit Jerry Kowalski on the flagstone floor of the Metro, at the feet of his camera crew. He buried under a humongous number of ABW ’s, Angry Black Women. “Svelte” is not a word applicable to this lot. The paramedics pry Jerry loose, but in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, that boy die.
Further details are protected by executive privilege.
You mess with The Man…
*
Now let me just take this opportunity to explain about the contretemps with the British Embassy regarding the bust of Winston Churchill. They claim we got all arrogant and returned the bust. Nothing could be further from the truth. Although we may have— inadvertently, you know— returned a bust.
As Copernicus can tell you, America is the center of the known universe.
Arrogant, we ain’t. We love Winston Churchill so much, we named our bulldog after him! The bust— a bust— of Winston Churchill stands majestically outside the Treaty Room in the East Wing of the White House! Whether that’s the bust given, on loan, from the Brit Embassy to my predecessor, Peter “Pretzel” Brush, I cannot say. I never looked that close. Could be… either/or… We got a bust, I’m told, which the White House received during the Kennedy administration. Which be which? How should I know?!
So how ‘bout you Brits stop ragging our asses ‘bout the “special relationship” between our two countries? We won’t speak of your total loss of empire if you don’t speak of our total sense of entitlement.
It’s a deal!
*
You know this “take me to your leader” b.s.? When they told me I’d be dealing with aliens, I thought they meant illegals from Mexico. Instead, I’m meeting green spacemen. We didn’t rendez-vous in any place called “Area 51.”
I met them at an ordinary Air Force base, but yeah, it is a space port. These outer space dudes are from Nads, a planet orbiting Gliese 581. What d’ya know, they do all the stuff Hollywood predicted they would: They ain’t little, but they green and slimy. They send small spaceships— probes— flying around on our planet. They make contact with planetary leaders. Hell, they even make contact with me! Using one of the underground tunnels, we spirit some of them into the White House. I gives ‘em a tour! Next thing I know, there be an incident!
“My God, you fuckers, what have you done to Tamara?!” I croak.
“We have sucked out her brain matter and replaced it with a trained invertebrate from the planet Isodar.”
“Why the hell did you do that?!”
They show me. At a single command, the “new” Tamara peels off her clothes, approaches me, undoes my pants and pulls down my undies. On her knees, she envelopes my erection with such alacrity and in such a business-like fashion, her behavior speaks volumes about the efficacy of robotics.
“We want someone who will obey our commands,” explain the Nadsies.
“Why battle free will when replacement surgery is available?”
They are also considering taking over the real estate. “Shee-it,” I tell them, “long as my fambly and I gets a large plastic dome we can live under, you welcome to annihilate everybody else.” Ha ha ha!
Reverse psychology, people! My response is so far outside the box, the Nadsies decide not to attack Earth until they figure out what cock and bull story I sellin’. I done that! Me, Blackie Diamond. I single-handedly thwarted an invasion from outer space! Put that in your hash pipe and smoke it!
The Nadsies set up a colony in Nevada. I figures the Air Force’s Big Safari office— who devise, develop and field combat equipment— can maybe help me find a way to chase the Nadsies off our planet. Shee-it, the brass be askin’ the NSA: Who are these Nadsies? What’s their capability? How many are they? What do they look like? And so forth. I explain that I don’ need an entire screenplay or even a six-page spread in National Geographic. I lookin’ fo’ the equivalent of bug spray.
They send over a couple of chemical compounds that maybe do the trick. “For use against nitrogen-based life forms.” “For use against silicon-based life forms.” In one-quart plastic spray bottles. “Do not inhale. Dangerous if swallowed. In case of contact with skin, flush surface thoroughly and notify a physician.”
By the time we ready to spray it on the Nadsies, they already left for Gliese 581.
*
While we’re on the subject of cleaning house, I had to replace the Secretary of the Treasury I inherited from my predecessor. Herman the German. He wore those ties—the color of orange, lemon or lemon-lime sorbet. The sight of which made people physically nauseous. Herman completely misunderstood the diff between eye-catching and irritating. His monetary policy wasn’t much better. Mr. Cheap Money, the printing presses never seemed to stop at the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. The low interest rate enticed people to borrow and use that money to speculate on the housing and stock markets. Even a small profit offset the little that folks were paying in interest on their loans.
Cheap money and high volume created the semblance of “growth,” but it was a bubble, artificially maintained by the U.S. Government. God almighty, even Louie the Friendly Local Loan Shark knows enough to take out the vigorish before the principal. Seemingly, an unknown concept in parts of the federal government.
The Justice Department got Herman for insider trading. He’s serving two to six.
*
Nothin’ pleases me mo’ than a good-lookin’ woman, an’ some of the women over at Justice be stunnin’. That don’t mean I wanna go to jail!
One of the things I discovered I could do to spend mo’ time with womens in the federal government was to send my wife and kids on missions abroad. My daughters Masha and Natasha be in school here in Washington— a honking rich private schule. But every summer, I sends the three of them off as goodwill ambassadors. I let Mama Bear and her cubs tour the world, telling “Yo mama” jokes. I stays inna W. House and entertains grown visitors from every corner of the federal bureaucracy, be they blondes, brunettes, raven-haired or redheads. The post-partisan presidency, I likes ‘em all, regardless of political or religious affiliation. Not since the days of Andrew Johnson has a prez thrown open the windows of the White House and invited his fellow Americans t’ join in the celebration. Of freedom.
That Jacuzzi off the presidential bedroom heat up real fine. Them ladies be sweet, keeping me abreast (I like breasts) of the latest developments in finance, agriculture, law enforcement, rocket propulsion, space travel, environmental protection and foreign policy.
I no wonk, although I am known to stay up late, burning the midnight oil.
Some fine wine, a couple o’ good joints and a sweet-skinned female companion set me right up fo’ the night. ‘Nuff said.
*
May 2, 2011
The National Herald
NO MORE KISS KISS BANG BANG
SALAMI BIN LAHTIS
Correspondent Mitch Daniels reports
WASHINGTON, D.C. “Like flossing your teeth, eventually that nasty food particle will get dislodged,” a military source tonight likened the demise of America’s arch enemy Salami bin Lahtis.
“We wanted him, we got him,” said another official familiar with the operation.
Not only was bin Lahtis killed by U.S. Special Forces on the ground in Pakistan, his dead body was recovered, dispelling any question of his having survived this most recent attack. After ten years of persistent pursuit, America’s efforts have borne fruit.
Sundays are traditionally a slow news day, which made our ears perk up when we heard that the President would be making a statement from the East Room of the White House sometime after 9 p.m. EST. Still, it was almost midnight before the President addressed the nation in a serious, nationally televised nine minute speech. He said U.S. Forces killed bin Lahtis in the Abbottabad Valley of Pakistan and “took custody of his body.” The city of Abbottabad lies about 100 miles north of Islamabad in the province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. A city of 100,000, it is the headquarters of a brigade from the Pakistani Army’s 2nd Division.
Within an hour of the President’s speech, a spontaneous, enthusiastic demonstration of mostly young people in jeans, sweaters and sweatshirts lined the north fence surrounding the White House, cheering and waving American flags. Among them stood Amal Habeeb, waving a Palestinian flag.
“This is a great moment for democracy and peace,” Amal proclaimed. “Muslim, Christian, Jew, Buddhist, Sikh, Hindu, Baha’i or Jain, all of us have reason to celebrate the victory of democracy over violent extremism. May today hasten regime change in the Arab world as well!”
Perky and young, Ms. Habeeb seemed a personification of the sentiment permeating tonight’s triumphant vigil.
Standing next to her, Orlov Kosygin declared this a great victory for the working class. “Workers of the world, unite!” said Orlov. “All you have to lose are your chains!”
Stephen Harrington, visiting from Bristol in the U.K., expressed chagrin. “If only Prince Harry had led the charge, you see,” insisted Stephen. “What a gloriously great day for England that would have been. Rather!”
Dos Lance kept trying to unfurl a Confederate flag, but his friends seemed determined he should keep it furled. “The South has a long and glorious military tradition,” he exclaimed. “That’s my only point in coming here tonight.” The blonde next to him, sporting a button that said “Pretty Girls For Blackie,” assured me that Dos was only carried away by the excitement of the moment. “He’s really not a racist,” she insisted earnestly. Looking at me longingly, she added, “I’m also available in orange flavor.” I think it was my press pass.
Battling through the tightly packed crowd, I stumbled upon a goateed college person named Monty Pellier, wearing an Uncle Sam costume. “I’m Canadian, I have to emphasize my patriotism,” he said, “otherwise you might revoke my visa.” When I protested, he told me that he was joking. Regarding bin Lahtis, Mr. Pellier said: “I thought, like the Unabomber, Salami would be hiding in the hills, but apparently he preferred the suburbs. I’m from Calgary. You drive two miles, you are outside of town.”
Monty claimed he was glad Salami was dead. “What did he ever do for Canada? Nothing!”
At one in the morning on a balmy May 2, a veritable kaleidoscope of opinions greets the defeat of America’s most intractable enemy. May he rot in Hell.
*
Family Dust-up
The Secret Service incarcerated Mrs. Betty Blatty, the president’s first cousin, at Shield of Armor Field, the new baseball diamond, tennis and basketball courts adjacent to National Harbor in Anacostia. Mrs. Blatty and the president had an altercation during a pickup game under the lights on the facility’s b-ball court. Mrs. Blatty is alleged to have elbowed President Diamond in the side and then kneed him in the groin.
Mrs. Blatty is currently being held at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, pending a fuller investigation. The president’s press secretary, M. D. Rogers, has announced that the White House does not intend to press charges. (AP)
Maddie’s 4 Thoughts 4 the Day
- April Showers bring May flowers.
- A truly considerate guest doesn’t just drop in, they wait for an invitation.
- When hosting a state dinner for the Bangladeshi Prime Minister, triple security.
- Living in the White House makes me proud to be an American!
Major Media Blitz
The Republican National Committee has announced a “major media blitz” during the upcoming presidential election year. “The lamebrain mainstream media is so obviously in the tank for Blackie Diamond, we are determined to use other channels to reach the electorate,” according to Committee Chairman Mason Dixon. “Goebbels got it right! See you in La-La Land.” (AP)
***
From the desk of Blackie Diamond
Hoopla Hoops
or
Dreamin’ the Dream
by Blackie Diamond
As a black man, I look at myself in the mirror most mornings and ask, “Who dat good-lookin’ son of a bitch?” At 6’ 6” tall, I know that I am truly blessed.
When I was younger and first introduced to Anthropology (“I’d like to get her phone number!”), I realized that, “Hey, I have what it takes to become a leader of men. A tribal leader. I am very tall.” Moamar Gaddafi, Salami bin Lahtis and Sonny Beech, the previous Democratic president, all have one thing in common with me: We stand head and shoulders above our peers.
My wife Maddie and I make you people appear vertically challenged! How ya doin’, shorty?
Naw, I’m just funnin’ ya!
Ha, ha.
You have no idea how superior I feel to all you little people. It’s like ruling over a nation of pygmies.
And I let nothing dissuade me from my appointment with destiny.
But enough about me.
Y’all might ask, “How did Rufus Aloyseus Johnson become Blackie Rufus Diamond?” Unsatisfied with the name God gave me— and all too aware of the life of Job— I took the bull by the horns and did a “Hollywood Gary Hart.” I GOT MY NAME LEGALLY CHANGED AND I AIN’T ASHAMED TO SAY SO!
Y’all!
You got crooked teeth, you gonna wear braces. You cross-eyed, you gonna get your eyes fixed. Same difference. Maybe “R. A. Johnson” a good name for a preacher— no offense to those of you who be religious— but from the age of six, I was aiming for a life in the spotlight of the political arena. The richest peoples in my ‘hood were city aldermen and the like. “Someday, that gonna be me!” I told my mama.
“Go wash up fo’ dinner,” she say.
I gonna conquer the world, I knew I needed the right clothes, the right Afro and, God help me, the right name! I reach legal age, I humbles myself before a judge— he be a friend of Alderman Crips, my mentor. “Why are you not satisfied with things the way they are?” ask Judge Tobias, all judgmental and so.
“I gots me an i-den-ti-ty crisis,” I stammerin’.
“You ruin your good name dealing drugs, partying and what-have-you?” ask the judge.
“Yup! “
He take pity on me and let me change who I be.
I consider myself an Olympic gold medalist in the event Being Blackie Diamond. No one in the world do it better than me! I recreate myself from day to day.
Once I got the handle taken care of, I could find out who be the owner. My voyage of self-discovery takes place through the lens of racial inequality.
It is true that as a child of Denver, Colorado, I went to Fernwillow Mountain High School, a private school, on a full minority scholarship. That’s one of those scholarships that not only pays for tuition, books and school uniforms for weekdays and holidays, it also covers sports clothes, pocket money, gas money, the car and driver. Despite my protestations, Fernwillow insisted on providing me with a white chauffeur, just another example of racial injustice, my brothers and sisters!
I have swallowed the bitter juice of inequality and spit out the seeds! (It might have been watermelon.) Take, for example, basketball. Shooting hoops. As I told my buddy Payback when I bumped into him in New York City in 2001, “Coach Malarkey was a Good Old Southern Boy racist pig. True, if I ever sank a jump shot, the team declared a national holiday, but Malarkey still should have put me in the starting line-up.”
Payback, who was cadging alms from passers-by (“panhandling” our parents called it) on West 42nd Street, pointed out that the coach came from Boston, but otherwise he agreed with my assessment. Payback also hit me up for a tenner. “I ain’t had no coffee, I ain’t had nothin’ t’ eat, I ain’t been to mah crib all mornin’,” he explained. “A brother gotta eat, y’know!”
Good old Payback!
I know where he coming from! As a member of a disadvantaged minority, I too have suffered! At Harvard, surrounded by preppies like myself— except that they was white— as the first black editor of The Harvard Lampoon, I experienced the sting of racial profiling! Not a full-fledged burn, mind you, more like the acrid caress of jellyfish tentacles. (Summering in Hawaii, my family and I are familiar with such things.) You pour on the ammonia and the bath salts, but it still hurt!
That’s why I became a revolutionary Marxist and male stripper in Los Angeles, California. With my antecedents, what else could I possibly do?
Long live Angela Davis!
Who say I ain’t black enough? I got street cred! I can sing Smokey Robinson. I do a mean rendition of Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ On the Dock of the Bay”!
Long live the proletariat!
Within the confines of the Constitution, of course. This is a country of law, after all. As a law student, you learn that the law is infinitely flexible. Like Silly Putty, it is whatever you say it is, as you shape it into a variety of permutations.
When I tired of stripping, I became a community organizer in New York City for the Amway Corporation.
In an effort to find my identity as a black man, I follow in the footsteps of Dr. King, frequenting a spa and clothes shopping exclusively at Nordstroms. I find they have high quality merch.
Recipe for Disaster
120 tears of a clown four fresh eggs
14 oz. flour 2 oz. milk
10 oz. pot one large bag potato chips
4 oz. water one uptown friend
salt margarine
Beat eggs and uptown friend until he reminds you that the two of you chased the ladies at Maxwell’s Plum. Add milk, water, clown tears. Sift in flour. Whip to batter. Melt margarine in fry pan. Fry pancakes. Salt to taste.
Smoke pot. Get “the munchies.” Eat pancakes and potato chips. Get in fight with uptown friend. Wake up that evening with splitting headache. Curse exploitative criminal Jew businessmen polluting environment. Hate NYC. Send friend packing. Call ex-girlfriend. Get chewed out over phone. Go chase the ladies at downtown club. Get STD.
How To Become A Community Organizer
Talk your way into a good gig ringing doorbells and glad-handing people for your candidate or organization. Express sympathy for the plight of others. Be very tall and sincere. Focus totally on self, but ask one serious question of each person you address. Stand endlessly, a concerned expression on your face, listening to their horse-twaddle. Write book portraying yourself as the victim of racism. Make friends with Oprah or at least join her book club. Run for Congress. Promise change. Become president.
Playtime!
Live the American dream.
NOTE: When I saw that the founders of Amway was making all the cash moneys, I decided to get a gig like that for “Elvis.” Me! So I ran for Congress.
The rest be history!
*
August 13, 2011
American Default Blues
Jules Boolkin, TV Network News: “Good evening! As millions of you saw last night, we sent news teams all across the country interviewing ordinary Americans regarding their views on the solution to the debt crisis in Washington. Ordinary Americans just like you!
“What you may not know, is the acrid condemnation Corporate has received for what critics and the public agree, for once, was ‘boring’ television.
“’If I want to hear the opinions of my neighbors,’ wrote a typical viewer, ‘I don’t need to turn on my television.’
“So, to beef up our story— and hopefully re-attract our demographic— we’ve returned to this issue. Tonight: Previously Unheard Voices On the Debt Crisis.
“We first take you to Flatland, Indiana, where billionaire maize farmer, entrepreneur and inventor Silas Worthington is seen climbing aboard his corporate jet.”
Worthington: “I didn’t make the hole in the rowboat, why should I have to help bail?!”
Boolkin: “We now interrupt a hold-up on Third Avenue in New York City to ask stickup artist and anonymous robber ‘R’ what he thinks.”
‘R’: “Karl Marx prophesied the demise and ultimate fall of capitalism as an integral step in the formation of a communist society. We are currently in the second painful phase of that transition, the economic collapse of the West.”
Boolkin: “In that same city, pole dancer Trixie LaBoom had this to add…”
LaBoom: “I’m not saying there will be, but if there’s a backlash to the curtailment of entitlements amidst the general public, the Teepee Party may well rue the day they made their demands.”
Boolkin: “This homeless person standing on a street corner in New York City is Rashid Corning. You don’t have Smellovision in your homes, but take my word for it, Mr. Corning smells pretty ripe.”
Corning: “The market’s crashing! No, it’s rallied! The Market’s crashing! No, it’s rallied! The market’s crashing! No, it’s rallied! The Market’s—“
Newsman (off-camera): “Any other thoughts?”
Corning: “Oh, wait! Stocks have taken a nosedive! No, the Market’s recovered! Stocks have taken a nosedive! No, the Market’s recovered! Stocks have taken a nosedive—“
Newsman (off-camera): “He sounds like a TV set…”
Boolkin: “Meanwhile, on Castro Street in San Francisco, gay rights activist Monty Pelham gave us his commentary.”
Pelham: “Times are hard for the Movement. Castro Street has definitely been left behind. Wall Street flourishes, the rest of us are dumb [bleep].
I, personally, think House Majority Leader Mark Goldstein is a lovely, lovely man. I would be happy to speed date him in a Bachelorette-type setting. I’m in the phonebook. Or google me online at Pelham dot Monty.”
Boolkin: “Finally, back in Washington, on Euclid Street, in the downtown area— about as far from Capitol Hill as you can get and still remain on the same planet— we asked the Reverend Jasper C. Pettiwhistle for these comments.”
Pettiwhistle: “A darkness rises upon the waters, Oh brothers and sisters! And the Righteous shall strike down the Iniquitous, like the scorpion riding aback the turtle. As we together sink into the mire of everlasting damnation, Brother Blackie will give us all another speech tellin’ us we got to be prepared to make ever-greater sacrifices.
“He got his cash moneys! He fat.
“He know where he can stick that one!”
Boolkin: “That’s our economic recovery report for tonight, featuring public reaction to Congress and the Administration’s debt ceiling legislation, and the resulting economic downgrading of America by the Standard & Poor’s rating agency.
“We’ll be back, after this…”
***
From the desk of Blackie Diamond
Speech Building A Nation
“Good morning, ladies and gentleman of the U.S. Naval Academy. Allow me to thank you midshipmen for that hearty greeting! Annapolis has never looked more beautiful. You mustn’t smoke, but feel free to drink coffee.
“It is popular today to question why American troops are in Bazookastan. I will tell you why. It’s because we sent them there. Yes, that is correct, most American troops are over there on America’s dime. Although I can imagine American contractors going to Bazookastan, using their own money, to hire themselves out as mercenaries, I just don’t see that happening among the troops. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think I speak for the entire Command when I say we’re proud to have each and every one of you inside the tent pissing out, rather than outside the tent pissing in!
“But enough about me. If we lose the next election, it will be because of hubris, so I try not to speak about myself.
“I see those troops stationed in Bazookastan acting as antibodies in the body politic’s fight against the insidious infection of Islamo—oops! I almost said Islamofascism. What I meant was… our real enemy… Austrian free-market economic theory, which was later disproved at the University of Chicago! We can’t let that take over. It’s bad enough Bakul is losing real estate in both towns and provinces. Without the hearts and minds of the people, Bazookastan is a done deal. With everybody going off at a tangent, the country becomes totally unmanageable!
“To use another analogy, those troops are the fuel additive added to the gasoline of American diplomacy to prevent engine knock in the Bazoo vehicle.
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Is victory attainable in Bazookastan? Let me rephrase that question: Nothing is ever 100%. That toy train you wanted as a child never went fast enough. That ice cream cone was never big enough. This is the human predicament. Nothing is ever going to be quite enough. We wouldn’t be human if it were otherwise!
“Having said that, a limited war with limited goals will someday be followed by a limited peace with limited results. THIS IS NOT A BAD THING! As in strip poker, as long as a single shred of clothing remains on the body politic, America’s dignity remains intact!
“Historians will look back on this time and think they have lost their place in the history book. NO, NO, NO, this is NOT Vietnam! We are not caught in a quagmire, fighting a local insurgency among the indigenous people of a region who insist on going their own way and fashioning lives in their own style, as profane and different as they may be from the American ideal. A thousand times NO! This is not happening.
“What we have here, is a failure to communicate.
“When we pump money into the local economy in these remote provinces, it totally disrupts the status quo.
“When we send in aid workers, they are in need of military protection. Without it, they’re sitting ducks. We have learned from bitter experience that the military presence of our troops ALSO draws fire. It’s a no-win situation.
“I am calling for the following remedies. The fertilizer factory in Pakistan providing most of the calcified ammonium nitrate used in roadside bombs is being bought out by an American conglomerate. They have promised to convert it to quaalude production. A clinical relaxant, quaaludes can be added to the water supply in Bazookastan’s most violent provinces. By local consent, of course. As a public service. If the Bazoos themselves want them.
“The point is, those people need to decide for themselves regarding their future. We can build, but we can’t destroy. Or we mustn’t destroy, which really comes down to the same thing.
“The election coming up in 2012, where the very existence of my administration will be called into question, in no way influences my policies,
I can assure you. Fighting for our lives… well, it would be intolerable of me to lecture you about fighting for your life.
“By a happy quirk, the Constitution makes the President also the Commander In Chief. You know, George Washington was a fantastic general, so the framers said, ‘He’s so good, why not let him wear two hats?’
“I respect that. I am the MFWIC, the ‘Mother-Fucker What’s In Charge.’ It didn’t turn out so well with a paranoid president like Richard Nixon, but generally, the system works. This gives me the prerogative to send in American fighting power whenever and wherever necessary. Nolens volens. Unwilling or willing. Willy-nilly. Any whichway. As a temporary measure, of course. Since Congress has the final authority over declaring— you know— war. It certainly was never a problem under Gerald Ford.
“I like chili, but that doesn’t mean I would hesitate for a moment to use American power— sparingly, of course— if that country ever were threatened by a hostile, Hayek 1 capitalist take-over. I came to this epiphany while on the road to surfing. You have to use moderation in these things. Shock and awe, certainly, but then, get your butt outta there. [1 Freidrich Hayek, The Road to Serfdom ]
“Which is what we’re doing in Bazookastan. Slowly, methodically, hunkered down in a crouch, but with heads held high, so to speak. You get my drift. The Sturm und Drang of war. I don’t ever want to be accused of putting American soldiers in harm’s way. On the other hand, I can’t control what other people say! Folks say and do all kinds of crazy things! So, as an alternative, I simply won’t let their snide remarks bother me. Water off a duck’s back. Sticks and stones can break my bones. Yada, yada, yada. See ya later, alligator.
Looking back, I want to be able to say “et in Arcadia ego.” I too lived in Arcadia. Nirvana-ville. Paradise. But we aren’t there yet! First we gotta get our asses out of Holeman province.
“My opponents in the political field will make hay over the lack of progress in Bazookastan, Iraq, Libya, Syria, Yemen and anywhere else they can find to nitpick. The American people are too smart to fall for their facile arguments and hopeless comparisons!
“Hannibal crossed the Alps, but that doesn’t prevent us from making ski trips to Switzerland.
“You don’t throw out the baby with the bath water.
“Repealing ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ doesn’t signify that the cow jumped over the moon!
“These greasers in Bazookastan are almost as medieval as the Republicans on Capitol Hill.
“You plebes here at the Naval Academy know what it’s like to climb a greased pole. Bazookastan is one of the greasiest.
“You remember when The Eagles sang ‘This could be heaven or this could be Hell’? 2 No worries! Bazookastan is one landlocked chunk of Hell!
[ 2 The Eagles, Hotel California ]
“God bless you and long live the United States of America!
“Oh, and by the way: Go, Navy!
“I’ll come down front so you can mob me for the photographers.”
***
From the desk of Kevin Feingold
Essay Bachmann Does Reagan
Paul McCartney must be shaking his head, considering the kind of women empowered by that song of his! God help us, it’s Michele Bachmann!
My best friend is a staunch Republican, singing the praises of Michele Bachmann. Since Michele is so often portrayed in the press as a nut job, my buddy felt that I ought to hear her for myself. I had no idea when I would have that opportunity.
Thanks to David Gregory and Meet the Press, I have now heard, first-hand and unadulterated, Michele Bachmann.
I have not been a party to this woman’s decisions leading up to her candidacy, so I can only try to second-guess the chain of events. I am left to judge the ripeness of the pear as it sits before me on the plate.
Michele Bachmann appeals to a certain segment of the Republican electorate because she is not merely channeling Ronald Reagan, she is mimicking him. On TV, she trotted out all the same tropes: Government is the problem, not the solution. Don’t have government try to do tasks best left to private industry. The less government, the better. The Market is self-regulating. Everything goes to Hell when government intercedes in the affairs of the private sector. I, too, was once a Democrat, but I saw the light and became an arch conservative. The way you grow the economy is by putting a little extra money in people’s pockets, not by sending that money to Washington in the form of tax revenue. I have many friends among the Democrats and will be able to work with them on bipartisan agreements.
Michele Bachmann is a rerun! Having seen and experienced the original, I am not impressed. Reaganomics injured America in ways so lasting, this country may never recover.
Of course, when Ronald Reagan took over, America did not have trillions of dollars in debt. The ruptured economy makes a Michele Bachmann or a Newt Gingrich positively dangerous. This is not the time for rollback, this is the time for TVA-style Works Programs. We have roads, bridges and an electric grid that all need repair. We have out-of-work people who would gladly fill those jobs. Not everyone is prepared to raise a sweat, but there are enough hardworking folks out there to get some life back into the economy. Not at the top, trickling down, but squarely in the middle of the economy, where the largest segment of the population lives.
“Mimicry is the sincerest form of flattery” and all that b.s., but I expected Michele Bachmann to at least come up with a schtick of her own. Ron Paul and Ross Perot have sculpted their own philosophies. Quoting Ronald Reagan verbatim does not make you a great political leader, Michele. Create something, don’t just parrot the single most popular leader in American history. Ronald Reagan did terrible things to this country, but—“The Great Communicator”— people still swoon at the mention of his name.
I think Michele read a biography of Reagan and decided, “There’s a lot of mileage left in this old crate! People will vote for this.” It’s a cynical performance, even down to misquoting her opponents and making erroneous statements, just as dear old Ronnie, “The Gipper,” was prone to do.
She, too, wants her place in history.
Human kind being a flawed work at best (God goofed, but okay), I usually cut politicians some slack. Watching Michele Bachmann evade, ignore and talk over David Gregory’s more trenchant questions, I think Michele deserves whatever criticism she gets. Watch her performance online and decide for yourself.
I don’t think the plight of people in the midwest— having to go a month without cable TV!— is such a major crime to lay at President Obama’s door. If he warned the country that Social Security checks might be delayed in August — causing people to cancel their cable service! — that’s what a default is all about. Instead of discussing serious economic policy, Michele Bachmann prefers the old political maneuver of babbling incessantly about the little people in life and what a hard time they are having. It wasn’t cute when Al Gore did it, it wasn’t cute when George W. Bush did it. It’s boring and it’s evasive. I, too, could sing you a Song of Woe!
We’ve heard this homespun philosophy before. It ain’t new. It was no fun the first time and it’s no funnier now. It certainly won’t solve the massive debt, unemployment and shaky international relations currently plaguing our country.
***
From the desk of Blackie Diamond
Speech SOTU
Well, it’s that time again. As we say in my family, “Another speech, another dollar.” The Bible warns us against the sin of pride, so I’m just going to say I am willing to be here. Not proud, but… I’m okay with it.
If you’re happy and you know it,
Clap your hands!
Guys, we need more cowbell!
A man of the cloth was to hold the benediction, but I don’t see why a fashion designer would be more religious than, say, you or me. So… pray for me, Argentina!… There! Done!
We’re here on Capitol Hill. It’s a pretty big building and somebody has to make the speech. I’m your man. Some of you complain that all I do is make speeches! Ha ha ha. To them, I say, look over there to the left, see those pretty young ladies? Those are my daughters Masha and Natasha. See! I made them, too. So once in awhile, yes, I do put my nose to the grindstone. Although the body part in question isn’t actually my nose and it’s not exactly a grindstone.
Which brings me to every politician’s pride and joy, the wife. Esto perpetua, may she endure forever! That’s also the state motto of Idaho.
Let me be clear.
The State Of The Union speech is always challenging! What, then, is the state of our country? An important question, I assure you. One not to be ignored. We ignore it at our peril! A question worthy of the most minute scrutiny, one whose every detail cries out for our attention. Eloquently. Intellectually. Emotionally. With bipartisanship for all!
Let me welcome to this convocation local politician Ernst Stavro Glickman. I’ve known the Glickman for… oh… twenty… twenty-five minutes. We were introduced in the car on the way over here. I told him to tag along. I thought, “Here’s a way to show my contempt for this body of elected officials. I can invite some goofball of a local politician to join us.” What’s that movie about bringing jerks to dinner…? Same concept.
When my family and I sit down at the dinner table and say grace, we always add a word of thanks for Leo Padurski, Chief of the NSA, America’s protector. He is the jockstrap of America, protecting our vital parts from enemy attack. Thanks, Leo!
Which brings me to my wife, who is not joining us here tonight at this special occasion. She’s off gallivanting around [dripping with venomous contempt] Europe. I mean, if she was gonna gallivant, why can’t she do her gallivanting right here in the good old U.S.A.? Well, she was deprived as a child. America was not the multi-racial, multi-culti society of today. Little pickaninnies didn’t get to make that all-important summer college trip to Europe. So my wife is making it now. She’s not in college, it’s not summer, but… whatever. She ain’t here.
If she starts French-kissing me when she gets back, I gonna relegate her to the Lincoln bedroom, where she can sleep alone!
Also attending here tonight… I could go on, yada yada yada, read from the Manhattan phone book, but you all know who you are. If not, well, Hell, introduce yourselves! We’re all family.
As president, I deal with government and stuff. One small step for man, one giant leap for my sweet buns! You better believe it! And me a black man from Denver an’ all.
We live in perilous times, so I’ve asked General Hartman, sitting in the third row… See that switch he’s holding? If I start to give away the farm regarding Iran or something, I’ve authorized him to cut off the mike.
If that happens, please, those of you at home, do not try to adjust your set!
Whoa! Senator Kefauver, I saw that! No throwing paper airplanes!
Now to the nuts and bolts of my speech here tonight in this glorious, historic hall of government. Does anybody have a bag lunch? No? How ‘bout bottled water? Many of you have hunkered down in your seats, ready for the long haul, the 65-minute speech-a-thon, filled with endless platitudes, vague arguments, warm-hearted assurances, emotionally-charged moments of deep, spiritual confrontation!
Forget all that.
My staff has timed this puppy— no offense to my doggie, Winston— and it clocks in at just under 10 big ones. That’s minutes, gentlemen, not hours! I’m not going to get up here and do a Fidel Castro.
So I’m going to rush the pace a little here. We all know what it’s like to be on the inside, looking out. We’re forced to sit here in the chambers of power, while the Occupy Movement protesters get to have all the fun, flouting the law, smoking dope and engaging in group sex. I’ve read the reports about those encampments!
Since only 1% of Americans serve in the military, and I never served, I consider myself part of “the other 99%.”
Hopefully— and I’m audacious enough to say this— by next January, this heavy burden will be lifted from my shoulders. Then, I too can take to the road, engaging in book tours and frank discussions everywhere. Don’t think I haven’t noticed: The big money is in speaking engagements!
Crank up the RV! I look forward to camping all over this great country of ours. I do not shrink from this challenge, I welcome it!
Imagine when all those millions of kitchen magnets and mousepads emblazoned with my image become collectibles. You be rich!
If you’re happy and you know it,
Stamp your feet!
Get ready for it… Release the balloons and confetti!!!
This is where we get to the emotional part of my speech. I can’t help but think of the time Walter Cronkite, reporting live on television, wiped the tears from his eyes and soldiered on. Obviously upset, he didn’t let that stop him. I think that was when he announced the resignation of Richard Nixon. That was a very emotional moment, I am sure. President Nixon was the one who said— he said many things, a great memoirist, he recorded hundreds of his conversations— he said, on national television— and I quote— “Meat prices must not go higher.”
That’s a sentiment with which we can all concur. Even Mark Goldstein and the Teepee Party should be willing to agree with us on this one little thing, right? That meat prices— metaphorically and otherwise— must not go, you know, higher. We must fight the tendency of our meat to rise… that is, the prices… our meat coming to attention at the sound of the president’s voice. You’ve seen the photos of those troops mobbing me! They love me! But I’m okay with it. The hot button that says, “Revere the presidency,” and all of us getting an erection over that. I know I do! And I’m the president.
Excuse me! It’s not polite to yawn in your faces. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.
I say to congressmen and senators alike, this be my motto: Humani nil a me alienum puto. “I regard nothing of human concern as foreign to my interests.”
So watch out! The American public and I got our eyes on you people. Accomplish something! Anything!
And guess what! Look at the person to the right of you and the person to the left of you in the audience… Everybody gets a car!
Read my lips:
I. Stopped. Smoking!
Ha, ha, ha! What? You believe that? How naïve!
No, seriously, I stop smoking several times a day, right up until I light my next cig.
In conclusion, and I said we were going to keep this baby under 10 minutes, Jobs, Jobs, Jobs! There! I said it. Steve is no longer with us, a moment of silence for an industrial titan, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Steve Jobs.
…
Maestro! The music swells. They pump in the laughing gas…
This is a great country! God bless America!
I’m President Pajama and I approve this message.
yustyoking 
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