This must be what it feels like to have a big brother.
By dint of being the oldest of seven siblings, it was logical, perhaps, that I achieved all of the firsts in our family during our growing-up years.
No competition.
Although very powerful personalities later arose behind me, in our youth no one ever challenged my desire to be the first to attain any significant objective.
But with the ascension of the dreadfully green Swish (What Am I Doing Here?) Obama and his entourage of bully boys to the White House, all Americans have instantly have inherited a big brother.
Though he spent two years on the campaign trail gracefully portraying himself as being as pliable and soft as a petunia petal, he is gradually emerging as a shadowy thug.
He is domineering, fundamentally dishonest, vengeful, arrogant, a master of studied imprecision, devious to a fault, routinely belligerent, a race baiter, mean-with-out-borders, overwhelmed, and, at his roots, a self-adoring victocrat.
He scrupulously calculates and logs every breath he draws, every public answer he gives. Not even a cough or sneeze is unscripted.
But Mr. Obama is our President. So what do we do?
Whom Would You Choose?
Until now, Richard Nixon has been regarded as our most narcissistic President, although Mr. Clinton would be my choice. But since Mr. Clinton was decidedly more congenial, he not only is seen as less onerous than Mr. Nixon but a downright nice guy.
The rudimentary reason, of course, is that he is a liberal from the Democrat Party. Mr. Nixon, in the absence of superior judgment, was not.
When the self-consumed Watergate figure John Dean spoke to the Culver City Democratic Club this week, I stopped counting after he had effortlessly used the pronoun “I” 200 times in the opening minutes.
I used to think Mayor I Love Me of Los Angeles was insufferably egotistical.
Swish Obama is the champ. He drowns ‘em out.
He makes all four of these rummies look like sin-ridden introspective monks, who pray all of the time they are not sleeping.
Herein may lie the most dangerous component of Mr. Obama’s fairly transparent personality, his massively massaged ego.
In a circle where you have such runt ranters as Waxman, Reid and Krugman, may I be pardoned for deliberately choosing an apt verb — that Mr. Obama’s unquenchable self-consumption, ahem, dwarfs the most famous egos in Washington history.
He goes the fairy tale one better. He doesn’t have to say, “Mirror, mirror on the wall…” He merely says “mirror” one time and he is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors for preening purposes.
A Leader?
Never having led any group even as small as his family — Mad Michelle unmistakably rules with an iron frown — it is reasonable, unsurprising and disappointing that, as President, he resembles a schlemiel standing at the foot of a chute, catatonically, waiting for 25 gallons of dirty bath water to wash over him.
Last January, he took over a staggering country reeling in shock, engulfed by a half-dozen crises, any of which looked serious enough to end our free way of life.
Instead of addressing those six, Mr. Obama couldn’t resist the first chance in his life to play Popeye.
He introduced to America his own set of six end-of-times crises. They were sui generis emergencies. He, alone, among the 300 million of Americans was brilliantly equipped to play Superman and solve each one by imposing his will on us peasants. As recently as last month, he told us peasants that if we did not pass healthcare reform before Aug. 1, it would be a mammoth tragedy. Life appears to be continuing in spite of daily Obama press conferences.
Rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt as if he were a small-time, side-of-the-mouth carnival barker, he says in a loud but squeaky voice, “Tell ya whut I’m gonna do.”
We, dear reader, are presently being done.
