Mr. Massie, has often compared the Obamas to sharecroppers who won the lottery

For the past six months the puffers, toadies, and kowtowing strategists in the Obama re-election camp have struggled to find traction establishing a new identity for their candidate, a task on par with rehabilitating the reputation of Mussolini. First it was suggested that he was like Harry Truman, later nauseatingly compared to Ronald Reagan, and since there have been pathetic attempts to link him to FDR, JFK, LBJ, and even Jimmy Carter in order to sandpaper his floundering style of throw-anything-at-the-wall-management. While his advisors and the alpha and omega of hired shills, David Axelrod, grope like frightened children looking for a light switch in the dark, Mr. Obama simultaneously sounds as if he is doing some long-distance channeling with Alice in Wonderland: “If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?”

I love the smell of desperation in the morning.

My colleague, Mr. Massie, has often compared the Obamas to sharecroppers who won the lottery, and I differ slightly in my assessment in that I see them more as Mammy and Pappy Yokum who woke up one morning nearly four years ago and found out they were no longer living in Dogpatch. Neither had the sophistication, capacity, finesse, charm, or sense of decorum to assume the roles in which they found themselves. They rode the perfect storm of a clever but highly deceitful campaign blitz and were aided and abetted by a co-conspiring media that avoided routine vetting as if it was poison ivy. Friends in the legal community would rather lose a kidney than surrender their license to practice law, and yet, the press conveniently took a pass on the Obamas’ significant legal foibles because truth no longer fits the template of a sullied profession obsessed upon creating and controlling news as opposed to reporting it.


Yet, by all indications “da plane!” still flies to Fantasy Island. Like nursing puppies, the press swallows each gibbered suggestion from the Oval Office as if it appeared on a tablet atop Mt. Sinai. It looks the other way when Mrs. Obama pats the Queen of England on the back like they were two chicks having an appletini in a Midtown nightspot, or dresses like a groupie with her first back stage pass to a hip-hop concert, and dismissed the crass, self-absorbed antic of Mr. Obama handing the British Prime Minister autographed copies of his inaugural DVD. Why didn’t he just leave his ipod, instead, or a book of limericks? Last week he walked out of the Air Force Academy graduation ceremony before the prestigious and dignified flyover; he has prostrated himself and ourcountry by bowing to kiss a Saudi racketeer’s ring, smooched Chavez on the cheek, and believes talk show appearances somehow enhance the presidency. While degrading and undignified and insulting and churlish with respect to the stature of their positions, they revealed who they really were without actually hurting the country.

However, when the President of the United States sides with Argentina over Great Britain regarding the Falklands, makes his first order of business to rid the Oval Office of a bust of Winston Churchill (a gift from Britain following 9/11) calls France our greatest ally, degrades Poland not only as it relates to its geo-political significance but then insults its people by not recognizing Nazi death camps, holds hands with a Russian leader assuring him of his acquiescence, raises radical islamists and terrorist organizations to near-diplomatic levels while brushing entreaties from Israel aside like dandruff, shows deference towards Iran, he contemptibly and with malice insults our allies and puts the country in peril.
Now he and his quickly diminishing assemblage of apple-polishers frantically try to re-define a man whose actions already have etched his ineptitude in granite. In addition to his obvious shortcomings and his disdain and disrespectful nature toward ALL things that have sustained this nation, he fancies himself worthy of trying to punk the Supreme Court of the United States like an unchecked Chicago street thug—–hardly the stuff of substance and instead characteristic of a juvenile delinquent.

In full distress-mode, he now suggests outrageous and excessive spending is the fault of his predecessor, that the obscene deficit, which will take at least four more conservative presidential terms to bring into equilibrium, is not of his doing, that an economy that is nearly flat-lining is not the result of Marxist policies, and that there exist “unforeseen head winds” that keep us from moving “forward.” I am not as preoccupied with directional adjectives as he, but can state without equivocation that a man who pretends to stand for anything and everything to satisfy a fickle public is truly a man who stands for nothing, except for a perverse sense of ego-gratification.


As a sub-plot to this B-Movie, there lurks an unforeseen adversary, not only to Mr. Obama, but to the country as a whole, and that is the remarkably quiet but never to be trusted Clinton Machine, lead by none other than Slick Willy himself. The man has been too quiet while his wife has been marginalized, too subdued while watching thecountry taken over the rapids, and remains a devious and manipulative force in the Democratic party with both hands on the Gong Show Hook, ready to pull a bad act off the stage.

Before the election in November the pressure of adversity for Mr. Obama will be so immense you might expect to hear him uttering words from another Lewis Carroll offering. Coming soon to a media outlet near you:

“Twas bryllig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gymble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves;
And the momy raths outgrabe”

My name is Barack Obama, and I approved this message.