One of the most popular of the 30,000 adoring tomes to emerge after the Kennedy assassination was the fondly titled “Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye.”
After barely sampling the spilling-over Kennedy shelves — isn’t anything discreet about the Kennedys? — I know more about President Kennedy’s fifth cousin and her penchant for overcooked meals on first Tuesdays than I do about some of my more desirable relatives.
At the opposite pole of this pantheon of putridity is President Obama.
We are doomed to remember him for his immense capacity for opacity.
The longer we know this strangest of men, the less we know about him, and the less we understand about him.
He must be the oddest of squirrels, the least normal person, to occupy the White House, and some pretty eccentric ducks have lived there.
Do they issue birth certificates on Mars?
What do we know about his religious background, inclinations or current preferences?
What do we know about his political philosophy?
Intimately speaking, what do we know about him or his influences during his growing up years?
What do we know, characteriologically, about him during his formative years, his college days, his 30s or 40s?
Only broad strokes and fawning stories.
Three hundred and thirty million Americans have invested their precious lives in him.
Yet we know more about presidents from a century ago than we do about the man who has our lives in his mystical, mysterious, exotic, largely obscured palms.
Do you know enough about him to allow him into your home to babysit your children? I don’t, even though I read about him every day and see him on television throughout every single day of the year.
Has He Ever Left Footprints?
If he appeared remotely likeable, we could pin tags like “idiosyncratic” and “nerdy” to his fast-fraying coattails. Instead, he operates under cover of a stealthiness worthy of his drones over Pakistan.
From a comprehension perspective, what we are surest of is what we don’t know about him.
We know that he definitely did not grow up having experiences like you and me, no matter to what generation you belong.
No one ever has labeled his childhood normal or traditional.
He grew up with a sickly, bizarro mother, weighted down with peculiar peccadilloes. We are told she entertained only offbeat ideas while shiftlessly shifting around to one-off parts of the universe.
If the President were not so well-known, men in white coats likely would be closing in on him.
He is the used shoe clerk who, as a company-wide joke, giggle, giggle, suddenly was promoted to CEO for Groundhog Day. But the pranksters forgot the combination to un-key him and restore his clerk status.
Now look at the gooey mess we are stuck with. This is the 9-year-old who didn’t know any better and tried to lick his mama’s cherry pie bowl dry without the aid of silverware.
Where Do You Start — or Finish?
He has no more idea how to govern than an order-taker at McDonald’s, where they at least have a script to follow.
When Swish and Mad Michelle arise in the morning — unless she is off on another of her taxpayer-fueled flashy-trashy European vacations, trailed by a retinue of 150 sycophants — he says to her, “Where do you want to go today?” She lists 14 states they have not visited this month, and one of the kids draws the lucky town out of a hat.
Last year he boarded Air Force One 174 days, or every other day of the year. Even if he were the honorable Calvin Coolidge and the country were prosperous and running on automatic, it would be embarrassing.
Me, Me, Me, Says the Narcissist
Barely two months into his third year, President Boob was chasing re-election when he has talked about how disappointed he is at having to do so darned much work.
Appearing semi-retired, he is in no peril of fainting from work exhaustion. First they have to find him, pulling him back from doing his 35,000th exclusive interview, which is what loose-leaf narcissists do.
Don’t you have to accomplish something first to merit being renewed by the voters?
This third-rate academic is leading a traveling circus back and forth across the country crying out “Pick me! Pick me to be your President again!” Kids in sixth grade PE display more aplomb. He looks like a gypsy with A.D.D.
On those widely splattered occasions when he deigns to overnight in Washington, he probably has to show the White House doorman his driver’s license to prove he is the President.
This is his notion of governing. He reminds you of putting an alcoholic in charge of a brewery.
If you only casually observe his behavior, you would assume he was raised among sheep and goats, grossly deprived of even rudimentary breeding, starved for social skills and as classless as a refugee from the Fourth World.
It is a dreadful concession to brand someone as powerful as President Obama a fool since at least the office should be respected.
Like a kid stepping on rocks to cross a creek, Boob just stumbles from gaffe to gaffe. His 27 months of unbroken incompetency will be a rich source for joke material for future Republicans.
He reminds me of a sleepy-eyed retired fisherman.
Stretching out on a distant bucolic riverbank, he dips his pole into the water, scratches his forehead, rubs his chin and, absentmindedly, and wonders what he will catch today.
So do we.
Only our country is at stake.
