[img]1|left|||no_popup[/img]To the surprise of his supporters but not to his critics, President Obama’s main task will be to keep from being laughed out of the Oval Office during his remaining 3 1/2 years.
More everyday, Swish Obama resembles the quintessential hayseed.
Where am I? he asks himself every morning. And how did I get here?
His bully-boy act played well in the gutters of Chicago.
But he never has played with the pros before, just with low-grade, small-time punks whom he, or his boys, could routinely intimidate.
He looks like the youthful hick that he is, leaving the farm for the first time, walking clumsily down a country road into the nearest town with pants that stop north of his ankles, an ill-fitting shirt, untied high-tops and chewing a stick of caffeine-free straw.
Welcome to the bright lights of the big city, Mr. President. Everybody here wears shoes and bathes daily not annually.
Sadly for you and for us, there is no correlation between making it big in Chi-town, where expectations are gutter-high, and playing with the big boys in Washington and on the world stage.
Doesn’t M.M. Ever Change?
Then you walk into the house at night only to be greeted by a frowning and predictable Mad Michelle, who stands there with one big, old fist on each big, old hip.
Grief in the daytime and horror in the night.
Where can a guy flee to get any relief? It is obvious that is why you fly out of Washington so frequently.
Well, pal, after multiple trips down the center aisle, I can empathize with you. But a small-timer should not try to play in the big leagues because he always is bound to be exposed.
Too bad you walked stone-cold into this job, that your arrogance and your mammoth ego — not to mention big, old Mad Michelle — prevented you from undergoing any training.
His desperation speech at 5 o’clock this afternoon on his (hopefully) D.O.A. healthcare plan would more appropriately be carried on the Comedy Channel as part of the Jon Stewart Show.
The Dimmest Rubes Are Onto Him
A so-so to poor student, he has not advanced as a grownup. He knows less about what he arrogantly, falsely claims as “my health care reform plan” than he does about Christianity.
The most narcissistic president of the last 100 years also can be called the Tramp President. Like a quarter-an-hour whore, he has been desperately visiting the bumpkins around the country, gasping for air, trying to sell a complicated health plan that he has barely glanced at.
Fortunately for him, he wears the press like an iron-clad epidermis, and the easily intimidated, race-first boys in the media are guarding him as if he were their baby sister wandering onto Washington Boulevard at mid-day.
He acts as if he is more lost than a child who wanders into a university classroom. He is as out of place as an atheist in church.
The sophistication and cadence of Washington politics have overwhelmed him to the point of breathlessness.
For 2 1/2 years, he has been faking it, ever since he barred his idiot pastor from his candidacy announcement 25 years before he was vaguely ready for the job.
His play-acting —how do I look from here? — necessarily accelerated as of last Jan. 20.
By now, though, Mr. President, even the greenest rubes in the back of the crowd have spotted you for an irredeemable phony.
Your fake deadlines for the deceitful health care and climate change bills, your jelly ethics, your shifting definitions, your artificial sincerity and your now-exposed embarrassing inability to speak extemporaneously on even mundane subjects — those were the tipoffs.
