The Presidential Q&A I'd Love To Hear....

The Scene: President Frequent-Flyer-Miles has just hopped off the golf course, and is attending another of those staged-political-event-cum-Nuremberg-rallies of his, this time in the crucial swing state of (insert name of state with large percentage of complete doofuses who voted for this jerkoff the last time around). He is introduced by the local democratic congresscritter with a gusto that is entirely forced, and probably lubricated by at least a fifth of Johnny Walker Black, and enters the room to the sounds of free-malt-liquor-and-skittles-enhanced applause from a crowd of people who wouldn't understand a word he will eventually say if you gave them a continuous, three-week-long Miriam-Webster enema beforehand.

The President has come to speak about a whole buncha things today, but as always, the most important points (in that they are the least intellectually defensible and defy common logic) have been loaded into the teleprompter first, will be glossed over quite quickly, and are intended to be consumed mostly by the press who will spend long hours, drooling and navel gazing, attempting to glean some sort of intelligence from the catchphrases. Finding none, they will be more than happy to make some up later on.

Once the political requirements of the Potemkin-style Presidential Confab in front of hand-picked minorities and public union members (oh, sorry, that's redundant) is over, the President can get to the vital issues of the day, the ones that affect the lives of everyday Americans, i.e. why it doesn't seem to snow anymore, and why is it that Michelle cain't git no love, and of course, America is still a racist country despite the fact that we have a (half-) black President who has, if he's achieved anything at all, reinforced every negative stereotype about Black men one could ever think of.

After the initial waste of air, the President takes questions from the floor. The questions are, of course, softballs, and political ones at that, because while Barack Obama certainly talks a lot, it's quite evident that he doesn't think all that much. Better to give him questions that he can blurt out answers to in Pavlovian fashion.

But wouldn't it be fun to imagine yourself suddenly with the ability to manipulate Obama's speech and thought process, as if you were possessing his soul, just to make him finally tell the truth -- as millions of Americans see it -- during one of these farces? I know what I would do, and make Obama say, had I the power. I imagine it would go something like this:

The Question: Mistah Pres'dent, I wanna ax you a question: what'chu gonna do 'bout poverty in da Black Comm-uuunn-ittaaay? You done talk some good shit when you wuz runnin', but I still ain't got my free gold teef, da tree bedroom house inna good hood, and ain't no one put no gas in my car yet. Word!, ain't even got no car. What'chu do 'bout dat, Niggah? Why ain't you take dem dead presidents from Bill Gates yet?

Well, to answer your question, Miss, I'll need some information. What is your name?

Shaquanda Pradaxa SaraLee Evans.

Shaquanda, how old are you?

I'm 21.

Have you finished high school?

No.

Do you have children?

Yeah, I got two.

They have the same father?

No.

Do you know where the fathers are/ Do they support your children?

My youngist' baby-daddy gimme money for milk and diapers, but da udder one in jail.

Have you ever held a job for, say....a year?

No.

Held a job for six months?

Hell, no! How'm I s'posed to hold a job wid two babies, and no college degree. Word!, who wanna work in Burger King, fuck dat shit?

Do you get receive welfare?

I git welfare, food stamp, and Section 8 Housing, but I ain't got nuffin' left after I feed my babies pork rinds an' Kool Aid ta git my nails done, an' go to da club ta git my freak on.

Well, Shaquanda, if I may, here's what I would tell you, a young mother who's struggling to make it in America, to do:

First, keep your fucking legs closed. It would be nice if you girls kept your knees in the same zip code, and didn't anyone ever tell you that condoms can be bought just about everywhere? Why don't you use some, or better yet, say "No!" every once in a while? Stop making babies you can't support and their fathers won't. It's not everyone else's responsibility to feed your fucking kids. Maybe you could be a bit more selective about who you give your favors up to, as well? I would say that the minimum requirements for your next boyfriend be: has a job and no criminal record.

Secondly, I'd tell you to go back and finish high school...no, fuck that, go back and finish grammar school. You speak like a complete idiot, mangling the English language with every syllable. Oh, that's right, I forgot: speaking perfect English is considered "Acting White". Let me fill you in on something, Dumbass: this county was founded by White Men, mostly of English descent, and who woulda thunk it?, they spoke fucking English. Never mind what Malcolm said about Plymouth Rock falling on us, how about we adhere to the quaint notion of "When in Rome, do as the Romans do", which means speak English and not this bastardized patois that makes us all look like jackasses.

And by the way, even Burger King offers education benefits to it's employees; you just have to do the work in return for them. Have fun flipping burgers and getting your degree in Black Studies, which is a code word for "Got a BS for being the same asshole I always was".

Thirdly, I'd tell you to go find yourself some work. Pick up trash, do someone's nails, run a cash register, or even, horror of horrors, flip fucking burgers. Do something useful to somebody besides having kids you can't feed and going to nightclubs when you have responsibilities at home. Hell, you could be doing both the country AND the Black Comm-unn-ittaaaay some good if you even just turned in illegal aliens in your hood for the reward money! It's not even work, once you think about it. Do something with your life besides breed, take from others and stew in your own ignorance.

Finally, I'd tell you that all of your problems are your own fault You, Shaquanda, have made bad decisions your whole life. I don't know if this is the consequence of you being a lazy dumbass, or the natural result of having been raised by what amounts to feral wolves, but you've fucked up, royally, and you expect someone else to fix it all for you? What's worse, is even if someone DID magically fix your problems, you'd still not be happy, and worse, you would probably do even dumber shit, given half an opportunity.

Stop being a whore, stop being an idiot, learn to speak properly, and then go out and work, Asshole. Start making better decisions, and I promise you, your life will improve dramatically.

Imagine the tingle Chris Matthews would get from that tirade?

Of course, so long as Barack Obama pretends to be holding the highest office in the land, and he's surrounded by legions of sycophants and parasites with a capital "D" after their names, we'll never hear any such thing. These people depend upon the Shaquanda's, real or fictional, of the world for their living. Otherwise, they'd, too, have to clean toilets at Burger King, or maybe collect cans for recycling. Democrats need poor people like everyone needs air, and they can, truly, claim to be so protective of the Poor because, in the end, democrats have always been so very good at making and keeping them that way.

Primarily by not telling the truth about the Shaquanda's of the world.

And by the way: Shaquanda is not really a fictional character. She does, in fact, exist. If you doubt this, then tune into the Maury Povich Show just about every morning. You'll see 50 Shaquandas there -- of all races -- every goddamned day.

*Sigh* It is quite the dream, though, isn't it?