Brain Damage On The Mic Don't Manage Nothin' But Makin' A Sucka And You Equal... Don't Be Another Sequel
Let's say you're president of the United States. Let's say you're President of the United States and you don't mind the constant security presence making you a prisoner in your own home, the late nights working, the occasional massive international crisis, the state dinners, all the talking with foreign people you have to do, the constant phone calls, the press hounding your every move and having to pretend to be nice to douchebags like John McCain and Ted Kennedy in public. You're fine with all that because on the other side, you get a bitchin' car, a plane and a helicopter, first-rate health benefits for you and your family and a shitload of paid vacation time. Overall, it's good stuff.

But man, some weeks are better than others. First of all, there's some crazy lady outside your house who won't leave. And not outside that mausoleum in Washington they make you live in, but outside your actual house. She's just sitting there, waiting, trying to talk about all kinds of depressing shit, totally sucking the fun out of an afternoon playing Super Mario Kart with the Prime Minister of Burkina Faso.

As if that lady weren't bad enough, you've got this hurricane thing (and it's only hitting Red States, wouldn't you know it), skyrocketing fuel prices, goddamn Iraqis monkeying around with the constitution you told everyone was finished, ayatollahs with nukes and the mounting evidence of an impending space alien invasion of Earth from right here in our own solar system. On top of that, everybody hates you.

Man. Being in charge of everything is hard. Maybe you start to have some dark thoughts, like maybe you should let the terrorists win. That'll show that ungrateful fucking electorate.

In times this desperate, before something drastic happens, there's only one thing for a president to do.

Road trip.

Nothing clears the head like the open road. And nothing boosts the ego like a couple of hand-picked crowds of rabid supporters chanting your name in unison when cued to do so by the Crowd Coordinator.

So your caravan of black SUVs snakes across the desert southwest, stopping everywhere there are white people to shake hands with and bask in their adulation as choreographed by your Advance Team.

But wouldn't you know it, there are always a group of hippies with signs loitering about wherever you go, trying to totally harsh your mellow, even in sleepy little big-box suburbs like Rancho Cucamonga, California.

Happily, you notice that before the Free Love set can get all looped out on acid and start their bacchanal Love-In in the parking lot of the senior center where you're about to give EVERYBODY FREE PRESCRIPTION DRUGS (or something), a contingent of militant pro-President counter-protesters show up in their pressed wrinkle-free khakis and polo shirts to speak on behalf of--oooh! Look! They're fighting!



Heh heh. Take that, Moonflower!

You're all charged up with energy before you take the stage. You feel good knowing that even if your supporters are down in the low 20s percentage-wise, they're a passionate bunch.

OK, some might be a little bit TOO passionate, but that's what the Secret Service is for.

But inside, the reception is all air-conditioned rapture, just like you needed.

Sure, every once in a while you have to give the animatronic Approvo-Senior 2000 Nod-N-Smilebot a good solid whack on the back to keep it on message when it starts sizing up humans in the audience to devour for its sustenance, but it's worth it. You're just glad that some of the "missing" billions in Iraq reconstruction money was funneled into the secret project to build this "Myrtle Jones" because she--sorry, it--makes you happy. Happy President equals happy country. Everybody knows that.


This post on the Narcissus Scale: 2.6


Pops
- posted by Pops @ 10:05 AM