Obama’s Diary

I don’t hate Pastor Wright for what he said, how he said it, or what he’s doing to screw up my campaign for President. Now I know how O. J. Simpson felt. His wife fooled around on him, took his money, laughed at him. I’m not saying O. J. should have done it, but I understand.

I didn’t feel that way last week, but I feel that way now.

Pastor Wright is nuts. Worse than nuts. Evil nuts. Either that, or he’s off his medication again, which I suspect is closer to the truth. I tried to cut the man some slack. I gave a memorable speech about blacks and race and hate in America. I distanced myself from him slowly and gracefully.

What does he do? He’s back in it again, on national television, like a politician released from prison. Wright has Marion Barry syndrome. He loves the camera and the spotlight. It is important that Americans understand Wright from wrong.

Pastor Wright’s emotions and feelings are right, but how he expressed them is wrong.

One of my Secret Service agents is a sour looking Men in Black type. Dark suit. Dark glasses. He never smiles. He’s always in the way. When I tell him to relax and sit down somewhere away from me, he says, ‘I’m just doing my job, boy.’ Then he changes it to, ‘Sir.’ The subtlety is not lost on me.

Michelle and I have dubbed him ‘Hillary.’ That’s our code name for any Secret Service agent who fails to act like a human being instead of a spy who failed to come in from the cold war.

Hillary was on my tail last week and I just had to do something. The tension was getting to me. I had just lost Pennsylvania and needed some time to myself, so I stepped into a hotel rest room. The standard routine is that Hillary and his crew close off the rest room, inspect it, then let me use it. All that takes time and I was pissing while I was pissed about it.

As I was standing there at the urinal I looked up and saw a sliding window that was open. All I had to do was grab the pipe above the urinal, pull myself up, slide open the window, and climb out to the parking lot. So I did.

I didn’t tell Hillary where I was going. Man, was he freaked out. I stood outside the window for a few minutes until I heard someone come into the rest room. I figured it was Hillary. I could hear the toilet stall doors bang open, one by one. Then Hillary was on his two-way radio squawking that the ‘Senator has been kidnapped.’

I laughed so hard I almost wet myself. Then I walked around to the front of the hotel and into the lobby. When Hillary finally caught up to me, all out of breath and sweating up a storm, I accused him of leaving his post.

That’s what Michelle and I call pulling Hillary’s chain.

Here’s a good question that voters should be asking themselves. ‘Who do you want to run America in four years?’

After looking at artists sketches of Hillary Clinton, John McCain, and me, aged four years, I have to be the logical choice to be elected President.

Hillary is already 60 years old and it takes more and more make up to keep her from looking 70. She’s already an albino prune with lipstick.

John is 70-something now, so in four years he’ll look like some old rich man at a nursing home with a hot blonde wife.

What about me?

In four years I’ll have a little more gray hair, a few more wrinkles, but I’m a ladies man now and I’ll be a ladies man in four years.

I’m telling voters that this is a serious issue.

Do they honestly think that a withered, crippled, wrinkled old white man is better equipped to run the country than a young, virile, strong, intellectual man with a true mixed heritage?

The same question needs to be posed to Hillary’s supporters.

Sure, she looks decent now. But look what happened to her husband. He’s death warmed over now, but he looked young and strong when he was elected. Hillary already looks old and weathered. Who wants that face running the country in four years?

Michelle is pissed at me. Again. She gets that way whenever I lose a big primary. She wouldn’t talk to me for a week after I lost Ohio and Texas. Now with Pennsylvania down the tubes, I’m not likely to Mr. Intimate for a month.

Or, maybe until North Carolina.

Michelle says I’ll be the first almost-black American President. For her, that’s a play on words. I’m almost black. And I’m almost white. And I almost became President. That’s Michelle’s take on Hillary’s recent surge in the primary elections.

It’s like a stereo boom box. I hear Hillary on the news at night screeching, ‘He can’t close the deal.’ Then I come home and Michelle is standing there screeching, ‘You can’t close the deal.’

I could use a Stepford wife right now. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory has not been easy for me.

This is what drives me. Hope shall prevail, but fear is the motivator. Fear that Hillary Clinton could still win the nomination and become President. Michelle tells me I’m becoming paranoid about Hillary’s dogged determination to keep going at all costs.

Hillary can afford to keep going at all costs. Her campaign contributions may be drying up but she and Bill are worth tens of millions of dollars now, and likely will make even more money in the next few years.

How can Hillary win?

If Bill Clinton has another affair and it becomes public knowledge, then Hillary will get another dose of public sentiment as the victim. She’s keeping the campaign going so she can trap Bill in some cheap floozie affair and gain the sympathy vote.

Tell it like it is. Those are tough words for a politician. I view it as a challenge, that’s why I stayed out of Pennsylvania when I said the working class there are bitter and don’t like people who are not like them.

It’s interesting, but no one has disagreed with what I said, which means I said something true. People just don’t like to know they’re bitter and frustrated when they are. Reminders hurt.

Too bad. A little tough love never hurt anyone.

Pennsylvania, get over it. Move on. Those jobs are not coming back. Your political leaders sold you away to a life of slavery and misery. Cling to your guns and religion and hatreds of all people non-white, but the rest of the world is moving on.

That’s not deriding the religious and cultural values of working class people in Pennsylvania. It’s telling it like it is. Deal with it, people.

It’s time to put on my Prince Charming suit and bring it home to the ladies of Pennsylvania so I can pave my way to Pennsylvania Avenue.

The women of Pennsylvania are so starved for attention that all I have to do is smile and catch a few eyes while I’m campaigning here. These poor women are working two jobs, raising children, managing a household, and all the while their deadbeat husbands collect unemployment.

Is it any wonder that Hillary Clinton is leading in the polls here?

Not for long. The charm is on. The time is now. The ladies await their suitor. First, Philadelphia’s suburbs and the desperate housewives and soccer moms, then I move the charm and the smile and the touch and some Barry White campaign music to the many blue collar women throughout the state.

Ah, I love politics.