Dear Rev. Wright
I started to write: “Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.” But you know better. Being president isn’t fun and games like I hoped. And I really don’t wish you were here. I could use a friend, but I need the Wright stuff like I need Arlen Specter. This summer I’ve got enough grief. It turns out the crowds that shout my name aren’t always saying nice things. That gets old fast.
I should have guessed it wasn’t going to be a picnic when the chief justice couldn’t even get the oath right. That mistake was uglier than Aretha Franklin’s hat. Talk about bad omens…
But even so, the first part of the year went so well. We passed the stimulus package and taught those Republicans that elephants aren’t the only thing that never forgets. I didn’t even give them a chance to read that bill. They were too busy eating my dust.
I got $787 billion – $2,600 per person. Even the Daleys never paid that much for votes. I think some money doesn’t run out until my second term. Then I took over the car industry to keep the union boys happy. The funny thing is, with all the limos, I barely remember how to drive. But that’s power – the Chicago way.
Things were good, not great. Who knew so many rich folks couldn’t do their taxes? I’m glad Michelle takes care of all our money. I can always blame her if anything goes wrong.
Thankfully, the media made me feel welcome. It seems like every journalist in the country has applied for a White House job. We hired about a dozen. (Most are so unqualified, it’s hard not to laugh. Some of their resumes are as thin as mine.) But that didn’t matter.
Whether they got the job or not, every one of them tried to outdo the others in their praise. The New York Times is so nice, I had one of my staff remind them I was married, just in case. And I’ve been on so many Time magazine covers that Editor Richard Stengel wanted to know if I’d autograph one for every new subscriber. (One Conan O'Brien promo and everybody wants a piece of me.)
Then summer came.
Instead of hitting the beach and having a fine Pinot grigio, I end up working on my bowling and downing beers in a west wing kegger. All because I go off script one time and speak my mind. From now on, I’m gluing that teleprompter to my hands. And take a tip from me, never let a committee pick your beer. You end up with a bottle of Bud Light. Ick.
The ebony and ivory summit was bad enough. Things really fell apart when we got to health care.
Losing Jobs Over Ex-Im’s Expiration? Don’t Believe ItLosing Jobs Over Ex-Im’s Expiration? Don’t Believe It | Ed Feulner