Saturday, June 12, 2010

2:34 A.M. Saturday June 12th 2010 White House Rose Garden

The President slowly walked down the pristine path towards one of the White House outbuildings scratching his neck from the overstarched pajamas issued him by the people’s laundry. Sleep wasn’t gonna happen tonight for this President, as he thought to himself “God damn it, why the hell can’t I even fart without the Secret Service smelling it. The look the guys give me these days is driving me up a wall. I don’t trust any of 'em. If I took a cap in the head they’d probably look the other way. Why the hell haven’t I heard from my contact? It’s been weeks now, maybe they were scared off with the last Saturday meet in the limo. The damn press needs to stay away, when I say. When I say I’m headed for my daughters soccer match, I’m headed for her match. They’ve been told. They’ve been told, damn it! They can screw this whole thing up, if we don’t get a better clamp on 'em. “
The young President glanced at his old Chicago day’s slippers on his feet while craving his cigarettes which he threw out 32 hours ago. “Why the hell did I let out that I stopped smoking? Jesus Christ why the fuck did I stop? I just don’t understand it, I get no instructions for a month and I got these fires blazing all over the place. What the hell are they doing, spending all the money I’ve made for them? Nobody can spend that amount of money without somebody noticing. This whole thing is getting out a hand and now I’m rudderless wandering around like that 16 year old girl in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Damn these pj’s. “
As he rounded the turn in the garden he couldn’t help but think that the one thing they didn’t count on was the isolation that comes with this office, the inability to even get a small message out to his contacts has turned into a nightmare. His thoughts rambled on “no sleep and I got that BP chairman meeting tomorrow and I’m gonna look like shit. I hope I don’t blow it, again. Image is everything to those freeloading British slave traders. I can’t wait to lower the boom on 'em when they come for that bailout money that’s not gonna happen, stuffy fuckoffs! The Queen will be giving me a blow job in Trafalgar Square for that money before I’m finished with her sad ass. Don’t fuck’n touch the Queen, go fuck off, here’s another iPod bitch, go away.”
While the now tired pissed off President entered the White House main building he realized it was now 4:50 A.M. and it was time to get ready for his daily security briefing with his soon to be and soon to leave national security heads.
No sooner did the door behind him slam, up pop’s his midget-like White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel blurting out “you look like shit man,” thus the beginning of day 498 of the Obama Presidency.

Special Note:
This is a fictitious story based on factual and fictitious events and individuals. It should not be considered factual in any way. We hope you enjoy this daily fictitious tongue-in-cheek story of the Obama Presidency.

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