Obama’s Diary

I’m having a hard time figuring out Hillary Clinton’s allure to Democratic voters. The woman is mean, harsh, cold, demanding, and so tough her husband sought solace and comfort in the arms, or lips, of another woman; countless times. Still, she’s like The Terminator, and never quits.

Tonight I watched her on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. She said, “I wasn’t sure I would make it here tonight. I was pinned down by sniper fire.”

That’s a lie on top of a lie and she gets applause, laughter, and sympathy on national television. Amazing. Only in politics is that kind of behavior rewarded.

Everyone knows that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and I’m a true believer. A woman scorned is hell to deal with. Hillary has been scorned. I’m dealing with the hell. God help us if she wins the White House.

Alright, I won’t win the primary election in Pennsylvania. Just like in Ohio and Texas and elsewhere, I’ll come close. Hillary will get the headlines, I’ll get the delegates. That works for me.

Winning a primary is not a black or white thing, so to speak. We split the delegates based on votes. Without spending much money in Ohio or Texas, I ended up with nearly as many delegates as Senator Clinton.

Pennsylvania is more like Ohio than any other major state. It’s full of old women, old people, Catholics, and blue-collar workers trying to find work. No one can honestly think that coalition of white people will put their trust in a black man, even if he’s half white.

Am I the only one who thinks it odd that I’m half white and people think I’m black? Michelle said, “Barack, you’re a Pennsylvania Polka Dot.”

I have no idea what she meant by that and I was afraid to ask.

I would rather move my family to Australia than be forced to select Hillary Clinton as my Vice Presidential running mate. She must be the nastiest woman in politics. Ever.

There is plenty of pressure on both of us to select the other as a running mate, regardless of who wins. I understand the issue. I feel the pain of Hillary’s supporters. They worked hard to support a woman for the nation’s highest office and they don’t want or deserve to be disappointed.

I won’t disappoint them. I want a woman as Vice President.

Senator Claire McCaskill is what Hillary Clinton would be if Hillary was a nice person. Claire is young, smart, articulate, almost blonde, and doesn’t come with much political baggage, other than the fact that she’s Catholic, but I suspect she will be forgiven for that.

Oh, Claire is a lawyer. That could pose a problem. John McCain will start yelling that lawyers are a danger to national security.

Michelle and I love Chicago. It’s the only city in the country where we can put on jeans, a hoodie, and a ski cap and walk down the streets in the dead of winter and not get hassled.

Last week we headed down the street to our favorite McDonald’s for some coffee. A few McDonald’s have the McCafe with special blends. It is so much fun listening to those young black kids behind the counter.

Anyway, we finished up our coffee and headed outside where a chubby white cop was writing out a ticket. The parking meter had expired. So, I stroll up to the cop and smile and say, “Hey, how about cutting a brother some slack, my good man? Let me put another quarter in the meter and buy you some coffee. It’s cold out here.”

Michelle just giggled.

The officer gave me a dirty look, slapped the ticket under the windshield wiper and started writing another one. The second ticket was for an expired license. I let him write for a couple of minutes, and when he started shivering, I said, “Officer, perhaps we have not made ourselves clear. We are willing to forget the whole thing and promise to get the license renewed if you simply show some restraint. How about it?”

The officer didn’t say a word, finished writing the ticket, slapped it under the windshield and started writing another ticket. I looked over his shoulder and the third ticket was for leaving a car unattended. “Officer,” I said, “You are the perfect example of why cousins should not marry.”

That got him writing another ticket. I don’t even know what it was for. What could it be? Either way, it didn’t really matter. Michelle tugged on my arm and we walked on down the street.

It wasn’t our car.

I love Chicago.

“First class, all the way, baby!” That’s what I told Michelle. We’re scrapping the campaign for a few days and heading off to the Virgin Islands. I need a break. Enough is enough.

If Hillary wants to slog through Pittsburgh and Philadelphia all week, it’s fine with me. It won’t get her any more money or any more delegates.

I’m looking forward to getting some sand between my toes, and a beer between my lips. I’ll even work on my tan. People don’t think that black folks tan, but they seem to forget that I’m half white, half black, so half of me tans real well.

Michelle really wants a vacation but can’t handle any time in the sun. Her skin already the color of ten-minute toast. She can’t swim. It’s a little known fact that the darker a woman’s skin, the worse she swims. That’s why there are no world-class swimmers from Africa. All those surfing tournaments in South Africa? White folks, mostly, with a few islanders here and there.

The Virgin Islands is the perfect place to visit this time of year. The weather is warm and balmy. The people are friendly and happy. There’s hardly a Clinton supporter anywhere in the islands. We didn’t spend a dime down there but locked up six delegates to five for Hillary.

All I need is one more delegate than Hillary.

Now I know how the Clintons felt about the Whitewater investigations back in the 1990s. The Republicans spent about $50-million to dig up dirt about Clinton deals in Arkansas and came away with much ado about not much.

Tony Rezko is my Whitewater.

What is it about land and politicians and developers? Mix them all together and someone makes a lot of money, someone goes to jail, and someone gets hounded by the press and maybe even dogged by a special prosecutor for years. Tony Rezko was a developer on the South Side of Chicago. He helped me buy some land. He raised some money for a few of my campaigns.

That’s it. What else is there to tell besides my 13 page interview with the Chicago Tribune. What more do people want?

Apparently, more. Alright, so Tony roughed up some people a few times. He’s a developer in Chicago. It happens. Alright, so Tony had a few local politicians in his pocket. That doesn’t mean I was in his pocket.

If there’s one thing a young politician learns in Chicago it’s that you don’t turn down an offer to help your campaign from a guy in a black stretch limo whose name is ‘Tony.’

If there is one thing I can’t stand it’s a friend with an opinion and an audience. My longtime pastor, Rev. Jeremiah White, whom I both loved and trusted, has too much of both.

Preachers are really just politicians with a smaller electorate. But turn on the video cameras and you’d think they were preaching to the whole wide world. Pastor Wright said some things he should not have said. Sacramental wine before a sermon will do that to a man of the cloth.

What makes this sad event even more sad is that Pastor Wright is retiring. Instead of going out on a high note as a beloved preacher, and personal friend of the next President of the United States, he goes out on a limb, it breaks, and he crashes into the harsh light of reality, right in the middle of my presidential campaign.

I married Michelle in his church. My daughters were baptized in his church. Now I have to reject and repudiate and vehemently disagree and strongly condemn what he said.

Let this be a warning to all preachers with an opinion and a pulpit. Drink the wine after the sermon.