Sweet Homie Al Obama [Part I]

In 2015, Barack Obama had entered the 4th quarter of his presidency; he was down by a lot of points (all of the points) and it was time to be clutch. Most Presidents at this juncture are lame ducks with nothing to prove - no more campaigning, just champagning. The second half of your second term is not for stressing, it is for: 1) taking care of the last few favors for lobbyists and 2) visiting whichever island luxury resorts you have missed thus far.

But there'd be no champagne showers in Obama's loser-ass locker room. And he'd given lobbyists so much over the last few years that they were beginning to feel guilty taking more from the poor guy - which, to that point - how sorry is Obama when bankers can throw poor families out of their houses, but then feel remorse about political favors? That's what a doormat is for: wiping the slime off your wing tips. Don't apologize for it, just walk right in and make yourself at home.

No one was expecting Barack to suddenly start living up to his optimistic 2008 campaign ideals - LOL! - at this point he just wanted to prove he was not the Antichrist. OK, to be more precise, he wanted to make the case for the possibility that perhaps he was NOT actually the Antichrist or an America-hating Muslim Communist illegal alien.

2016 was approaching fast and that meant life's meaning was fleeting. Where would Barack be once his presidency was over, and who would be his friends? Hilary wouldn't want him to close to her presidential run. In fact, everyone in DC was distancing themselves from Obama; he was like a political fart. Joe Biden would be flying over the world in a hot air balloon. All Barack would have is Michelle and two daughters entering the peak of their teenage years, which would be pure hell. He may have a swell man cave to borough into, but he'd be all alone. If only he had a friend, maybe a brother, to hang out in there with him.

Obama's amazing story really began to unfold one night when a strange man wandered onto the White House lawn.

"Mr. President, I'm afraid there's been a security breach," an anxious voice squawked over the intercom. "We have an intruder on the premises. Repeat: intruder on the premises." 

"Uhhh.. No shit, Sherlock," Barack responded. "I'm looking right at him."

Not only had a strange man slipped past Secret Service and onto the White House lawn, he had already walked right in the White House and into the kitchen. Not a single Secret Service member noticed the intruder, he was spotted only by Barack, who'd snuck out for a cigarette. Now the President stood just outside the kitchen with the door cracked, eyeing the oblivious intruder. As per television-trope standard, he fumbled around for a makeshift weapon to accost the strange man, the identity of whom will obviously be very meaningful to this story. And as you also must expect, there'll be a flabbergasted and comic exchange between the two men when they come face to face with one another - the whole wha-wha-what and wha-wha-is that you?! conversation. So that happened.

"Barry!" the man shouted in a southern drawl, holding a pot and waving both arms around. "It's me! Your brother Al! Al Obama!"

Barack stared at the man quizzically. Long lost siblings are a myth, he thought, just a silly trope for hacky writers to use in lieu of an original story. But then he remembered how many "friends and family members" he got around 2008, and how many of them would no longer bother to return his calls or retweet him, now that the powerless POTUS could not longer do anything for them. Was this man Al - a mulletted and mustachioed bumpkin - really that far behind the times? Or was he the last man on earth that wanted to be associated with Barack Obama? A long lost brother was better found late than never.

"Hey something smells good! Hey who's that?" The head of Secret Service came barging into the kitchen.

"I beg your pardon, that's the President of the United States of America, Barack Obama!" Al shouted.

"Yea? Let's see a birth certificate," snapped the officer.

Frustrated and edgy, Obama said, "Give me a break, Sherlock." He wasn't being sarcastic earlier on the radio, Sherlock was the Secret Service officer's real name. Sherlock Gates.

"If I let you have some of these grits, will you leave me and my brother alone?" Al offered. "We need to have a real important talk."

"Your brother? But you two are so.. different!" Sherlock uttered ignorantly. "Yea give me some of those grits!"

Obama asked, "What's the latest on that scary trespasser?"

Through a mouthful of grits, Sherlock spat, "We're right on that, chief. Gathering intelligence from all the cell phone companies. This guy thinks he can sneak up on the White House? We'll turn over every rock on the continent to find him!" He grabbed a 2-liter of Sprite and his bowl of grits and waddled out of the kitchen.

"Barack, I know how we can save your presidency!" Al exclaimed. "We gotta go on the ultimate PR tour through the heart of Dixie! I got it all planned out, but we gotta leave tonight!"

Barack sighed and filled with the desire to simply walk back to bed, wordlessly. But this was his moment. He felt like George W. reading to kindergarteners on 9/11. And he was just going to go along with whatever Al Obama wanted to do. Al was his brother, though Sherlock's snarky remarks lingered - were they too different from each other? Would this work, or just be another disappointment?

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

Al Obama's Dodge Dakota Sport burnt rubber and laid a big fat smooch on I-95 South; the brothers had penetrated Dixie by dawn. The first stop of the trip was in Virginia, just as the sun flicked on. Beaming with vigor and patriotism, Al hopped out of the truck like a paratrooper, his plaid Thinsulate jacket blowing in the cold morning wind. Barack snuggled up in the cab with a blanket up to his ears.

There was a bit of an early morning rush inside the truck stop, as various construction workers and truckers bustled inside to get fuel for the body, mind, and gas tank. Heading to the one-seater men's room, Al Obama juked several steps around the snack cake aisle, then swerved dangerously in front of a trucker, who wound up jackknifing and careening into the condom machine. (And that's jackknifing as in a metaphor for the vehicular term; fortunate for all, the trucker opted to wait his turn rather than brandish a jackknife.) The bathroom wasn't a one-seater technically, it was one room with one toilet and one urinal. But civilized society does not allow for a scenario in which two men would go in this room at the same time.

When Al got in line to buy his morning Mountain Dew, he was a bit surprised to see his bro Barack pacing around the store. Everyone else inside was like oh shit that's the president. Or oh shit that's the Muslim antichrist. 

"Hey Barry," said Al. "Didn't expect to see you awake so early."

"Yea well I'm actually getting real giddy now that we're into this trip," Barack said. "I mean, I've never been able to experience this whole road trip adventure, this quintessential Americana. I want to soak it all in!"

"Great," Al replied, "Hey, that's what it's all about."

Barack gleefully exclaimed, "I need to get some souvenirs!" 

Looking around at all the junk for sale on the racks, he saw that there's basically only two types of souvenirs for sale: confederate flags or items baring the confederate flag. There are cloth rebel flags of all sizes; rebel cigarette lighters; bumper stickers with rebel flags and quasi-threatening slogans; coffee mugs with rebel flags and random names, "Paula" and "Jason."

As Barack perused the merchandise, Al and the septuagenarian clerk made guilty eye contact and stood knee-deep in the extra-strength awkwardness, feeling icky in their white skin. Barack began grabbing various items and had quickly accumulated an armful of confederate kitsch. 

"Barack maybe we should get you some souvenirs at another shop," Al offered glumly. 

"No, this is fine," the President replied. "I'll just get these things here." He placed his assortment on the counter. "Excuse me sir. Do you have any of these coffee mugs with the name 'Malia' on them?"

The clerk lowered both his elbows and forearms to the counter as if he barely support himself. He looked like an old stick. "No," he replied, "but maybe your daughter would like this beer coozy. It's got a pink rebel flag."

"Yes," said Barack. "I'll take two, please."

Next, the Obama Bros were back on the road with a long way to go and a short time to get there. It was a perfect chance for Al to explain exactly how he, a white Southerner, figured into the Obama family tree, and of course, how he fell out of it, only to climb his way back in. This backstory - readers, please be assured - exists in perfectly sound narrative logic, and is omitted from this text, not because it's a load of hogwash, only because it's difficult to diagram. It's a discussion more suited for a long road trip with a sibling than an obtuse work of presidential fan fiction that already has such a wasteful overabundance of words, it is almost definitely produced by the U.S. Government itself.

After discussing family matters and a rousing game of I-Spy, the Obama brothers settled into the first non-awkward silence of the trip. No one had to say anything, no one had to feel uneasy; stare at the road and listen to the Alan Jackson Greatest Hits CD.

Al broke the silence, "So Barack, how do you really feel about abortion?"

When Al looked over at the passenger seat Barack was sleeping with a blanket pulled up to his nose and wearing a set of Beats By Dre headphones.

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

Down a dirt road the Dodge Dakota Sport shimmied and shook like a honkytonk brawl and the herky-jerky ride woke POTUS from his dream. Barack was startled but was happy to be awake, even if he was in Al's cramped, cigarette-saturated truck cab, rather than the 1000-thread count bed at the White House. The President had dreamed he was retired and living on a farm with his family. His daughters frolicked with the animals and Michelle serenely drank sweet tea on the porch. But when the sun went down his family locked Barack in the barn with all the animals. And when Barack went to drink from the trough, Jon Boehner was wading in it like a steeping tea bag, turning the water orange and acidic.

"Where are we?" Barack asked his brother, trying to swallow the lump in his throat leftover from his anxiety dream.

"Welllllllll," Al sonorously stretched the word into an aria. "We are going to be visiting southern royalty. I know you've taken tea with the Queen of England, but you're about to meet the Queen of England of the South!"

The dirt road plateaued onto a wide green hill, on top of it a gorgeous colonial mansion with a perfect garden in front, full of lilacs and sunflowers. The scene was pure pastoral grace, lit with the darling pastel colors of a children's book, even with Al's Dodge leaking oil on the driveway and Little Debbie wrappers wafting out of the cab. A little old lady wandered out onto the veranda; she extended her arm into the air, allowing two hummingbirds to eat right-the-hell-out of her hand. It was magic.

"Hello Ms. Sippi! Remember me?" Al hollered from the driveway.

The lady responded, "You were the guy from Craigslist that had all those Blu-Ray players."

"Nah," said Al. "My name's Al Obama, the President's half-brother. We had that long, existential conversation at Waffle House a while back and you told me I should go reunite with him, well I did! Here he is, my brother, the President!"

Barack stepped out of the truck with his arm extended, ready to wave gently and humbly. Ms. Sippi let out a shriek so big and vociferous, it could've worn the brass horns right off a billy goat; the birds darted off the porch in every direction, except North of course. Ooh, Barack thought, is it because I'm black?

"It's not because you're black," Ms. Sippi shouted, upbeat and unafraid. "It's because you're so darn skeeny! Ya look like a skeleton. Get in this house and let me cook you something good, Mr. President!"

The three of them had an outstanding meal. Barack had never had Paula Deen's cooking (she had turned down many White House invites) but he knew there was no way hers could rival Ms. Sippi's, no way.

After a thunderous burp, Al said, "'Scuse me. Ms. Sippi, we were wondering, if you if you would be so kind, could you please help us get the word out Barack's new campaign? He's no longer campaigning for election, he's actually campaigning for HOPE and CHANGE. But he needs the support of the South."

"Well who wouldn't support Obama," Ms. Sippi said, "after all he's done for healthcare, gays, and the environment?"

Barack blushed, his brother continued to speak for him. "You see, unfortunately a lot of Southerners are so set in their ways, they're hostile towards change."

"Which is crazy," Barack piped in, "because I'm really the just the same old shit."

"How do we spread the gospel, Ms. Sippi?" Al asked. 

"Welllllllllll let me fire up Facebook," Ms. Sippi said. She opened her laptop and began operating it with her face pressed almost all the way against the screen, pecking the keys with one finger. "Look at these pictures of my grandkids," she told her guests.

"Awww," the Obama brothers said in unison. The picture on the screen was of two 200-pound young men draped in confederate flags and holding machine guns.

"So here's what I'll post," Ms. Sippi orated as she typed. "Hey y'all, I'm breaking bread with Barack Obama, and listen, he is just as sweet as a barrel of molasses floating down the Chattahoochie! I believe in him, y'all should too."

"Hey tag me in the post," Barack said, giddy as the dickens. "And tag my brother, Al too." The brothers smiled and nodded at each other, feeling like their planning, hard work, and solidarity would reward them, as well as the country they loved. They felt like passionate soldiers, committing to each other in the heat of battle. Although maybe an analogy to military soldiers is a bit awkward, considering the Obama brothers had much lower stakes, and undoubtedly a higher reward: the respect of the entire nation.

Ms. Sippi led the brothers out to the porch to watch the sunset, a cute scene scored by the sound of Al's cell phone ringtone, gentle fluttering of 8-bit acoustic guitars.

"Yello?" Al said.

"Hi, could you please put the POTUS on the phone?"

"Barack!" yelled Al, covering his flip phone. "We've been busted! Big Brother knows you're down South with your little brother! They're spying on us! And you said the NSA was not tracking everyone, YOU LIED!"

Barack tried to reassure Al but he was quickly becoming hysterical, regressing into a paranoid conspiracy theorist. Knowing how to take charge and neuter the nonsense, Ms. Sippi grabbed the phone and yelled, "May I ask whooooo the hell is calling?"

"It's not the NSA, ma'am," the surprisingly gentle, effeminate male voice said on the other end. Ms. Sippi expected to hear a low, villainous voice but was relieved to hear the non-threatening corporate-speak of the caller (though his perkiness and upward vocal inflections could be considered pretty threatening.) The voice continued, "We got this number from the Facebook profile of a man who was tagged with the President. We only used public information that was available to everyone. The President has been AWOL for over 24 hours with his phone turned off, we apologize for the inconvenience, but we need to speak with him." Barack was handed the phone and asked who was calling.

"Hello, Mr. President! This is Mark Etingshmuck from the White House Social Media Department. Listen, we don't know where you are or what exactly your doing, but do you realize what's happened to your web presence in the last ten minutes? You're trending!"

Shrugging his lanky shoulders, Barack said, "No, I'm just trying to live my life over here. What are you talking about?"

Social Media Mark snapped back enthusiastically, "Mr. President, you're the top-trending search in the country, your approval rating has risen for the first time in months, and you've received, like, over 7,000 Facebook Likes in just the last few minutes - and Mr. President, those Likes are coming from whites, in the South! We don't know who this Ms. Sippi is, or Al Obama for that matter, but they are reviving your popularity. They’re PR good luck charms!"

"Yes they are," said Barack warmly, smiling at Al and Ms. Sippi; it was a true Hallmark moment, the three friends embraced in a we-did-it group hug. "Now I gotta go," Obama continued to Mark Etingshmuck. "Tell everyone at the White House to leave me alone. I'm on a mission and all y'all are gonna do is mess it up if you get involved. Tell the family I love them, and next time they see me, they'll be proud of me."

Mark replied, "Will do Mr. Pres! Listen I was wondering - you play FarmVille, right? Could you give me, like 1000 Pumpkin Points? Also water my crops. It'd really help me win the high score!"

"Uhhh," Obama grumbled. "I am the... President. Of the United States. This isn't exactly a priority, there, Mark."

"Come on!"

"OK, you got it, Mark." Obama agreed to do Mark the virtual favor and hung up.

"Well, boys," Ms. Sippi sang, still clicking away on her laptop. "I'm checking all my E-Vites and I think I've found the perfect opportunity to really reach all the Southerners. Go on and get some sleep, because tomorrow morning we're driving down to Hillshillings, Tennessee.

Ms. Sippi took the Obama brothers upstairs to the cozy bedrooms they'd be sleeping in.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality, Ms. Sippi," Barack said sweetly. "This beats any so-called 'Presidental Suite' I've ever stayed in."

"You're very welcome, honey. I hope you can get comfortable. This room is very, very haunted by Confederate Army ghosts. Good night!"

 

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

Hillshillings, Tennessee is home to the annual Donkey-Con, a festival celebrating the heritage of the town as a world-renown donkey breeding/selling/modeling/fighting capital. It's got everything you could want in a festival, unless you want diversity. But this Hillshillings gala boasts a thrilling and unpredictable donkey parade (where are those donkeys going?!) and plenty of succulent southern food (don’t worry, donkey is not an ingredient.) In fact the food alone makes Donkey-Con a must-visit destination, especially if you need a getaway from a healthy diet.

Each year Donkey-Con kicks off with a full week of intense yard sales, a mercantile frenzy on par with Black Friday. This is a tradition that goes back several generations; almost everything that's been owned by somebody in Hillshillings has been owned by everybody. It's like a commune, or a big homogenous that knows how to get mileage out of hand-me-downs. With everyone donning the latest fashions, they conclude the week's festivities with a candlelight vigil at town hall, where the townspeople gather and sing in front of Abernathy's Ass. Abernathy's Ass was the donkey of Hillshillings farmer, Ezekiel Abernathy, who became a cherished and nearly messianic icon for the small Tennessee town, the ultimate emblem of pride. Today he is embodied in a gorgeous marble statue atop the town hall steps, but about 75 years ago the donkey did something so great and miraculous, he saved and/or gave meaning to thousands of lives that were on the brink of entropy and damnation. The legendary status of Abernathy's Ass was as firm and steady as the donkey himself, but as for what exactly he did to become a hero is left up to conjecture. Curiously, these speculative origin stories are allowed to be told only by someone born in Hillshillings, according to the town’s ancient commandments. (When a magazine tried to do a story on Abernathy's Ass and Hillshillings back in the 1970s, they quickly heard from the state militia and were strongly discouraged from printing the story.) Obama hoped to hear the true story from a Hillshillings resident, and he really hoped they'd listen to his story.

So it was Donkey-Con 2015 in Hillshillings, TN, to which Barack Obama, Al Obama, and Ms. Sippi headed. If the stars were ever going to align, it would be here in the warm, syrupy southern sky, overlooking a parade of asses.

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

"Mr. President, Mr. President!" A young man with wavy brown hair and clear-frame spectacles came running towards Barack, whispering and shouting at the same time. The Obama brothers and Ms. Sippi were casually enjoying some funnel cakes next to a small food cart. No media reporters or fair attendees had approach the President to that point - they had cleverly dressed Barack in a baseball hat and flannel shirt - but this young man, a yuppie/hipster-type, stuck out more than even a world leader at the rural festival. Unless Donkey-Con had become trendy and co-opted by the artisanal foodie set - probably an inevitability, but still a year or two away.

The young man took one more step forward and was speared swiftly by the athletic Al Obama - BAM! He hit the ground as fast as two hands clapping at a Bread concert. Without raising his head from the pavement, the freshly-tackled boy offered his credentials through a moan. "Uhh, it's me, Mark Ettingshmuck. The White House Social Media Director?"

"Nice to finally meet you, Mark." Barack pulled him up and helped dust off his skin-tight dress shirt.

"Hey sorry, there," said Al. "But that's my brother and your Commander in Chief, and you was walking awfully fast toward the end of the line. I was justified!"

Ms. Sippi weighed in, "Al, that was SO FLIPPIN' HAWT!"

"You're a good brother," said Barack.

"I definitely need stitches!" Social Media Mark muttered. 

Barack responded, "Then good thing you've got insurance!" He gave Mark a big wink, and then a napkin to help keep some of the gushing blood under control.

Mark may have been a tender-headed little waif of a boy, but he had taken the initiative to arrange a thorough PR itinerary for the Prez: beginning with a photo-op at the Abernathy's Ass statue, Obama would have a Meet-and-Greet, then finish the night off by singing a country song with Donkey-Con's musical headliner, Wes S. Stern. 

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

SNAP! The flash of a camera popped off and refracted off Obama's pearly whites. The POTUS, surrounded by many surly whites, smiled and belted out assured sound bites for the media as he leaned on Abernathy's Ass.

"This donkey is a symbol of the American worker," Barack spoke. "Is he stubborn at times? Um yes. But it's a righteous stubbornness, one that will endure well into the post-industrial era, when the donkeys will either be robotic or outsourced from cheaper international labor markets. Yes, that's stubbornness only afforded to the absolute most hard-working grunt: his weak feet sputtering in the mud and his nose pointing right into the rear of the superior directly in front of him. Working hard to go nowhere. That's why the Democratic Party co-opted the donkey as its mascot. Hard working."

There was a light gasp in the crowd. The Donkey-Con attendees had been anything but rowdy, but they were now clearly uncomfortable with the political innuendo. It was like Obama had handed them a piece of fresh donkey dung and told them to just hold onto it for a sec. The President didn't say anything else, he just stood and nodded. In need of a graceful exit, Barack was ushered away by his entourage, Al and Ms. Sippi, sporting giant nervous smiles and waving little patriotic sparklers around. They instinctively broke into song, an attempt to add another layer of distraction and smooth things over. Out of their harmonic southern pipes came a surprisingly on-key rendition of My Country 'Tis Of Thee that they gave sort a "modern twist." A person clapped.

Inside a private tent, Social Media Mark harangued the President while a giant Amazonian nurse gave him an ice bath. "Hey what was that? Getting political won't get you any friends here!"

"I was just pulling that stuff out of my ass," Barack said defensively. "I'll have another chance to win them back. The Meet-and-Greet is about to start, right?"

"I have no idea. Your brother gave me a really severe head injury."

"Well, I'll tell you what," Al said. "These folks aren't lining up to meet the mighty man who concussed Ol' Meek Mark. They're coming to meet the President. So I'm just gonna explore the fairgrounds and let you shine, brother. They got a Genealogy booth out there, maybe I'll get them to draw our family tree!"

Ms. Sippi added, "And I'm gonna set up a booth and try to sell some of these dang pies I brought."

"I can't believe I made it in the car for that long with all those pies,” Al told her. “It's enough to make a man insane! I’ve never felt such temptation in a car ride. And I used to be a courier for an in-home stripper service, and that particular enterprise had no problem bending the rules.”

Like a true gentleman of Dixie, Al opened the tent door for Ms. Sippi, and on the outside they had to squeak through a thick Donkey-Con crowd. It was a staggering mass of humanity huddling outside the tent, and all of them were eager to meet Barack Obama, who sat in a metal folding chair, feet propped up on the edge of the small bathtub that housed a head-injured member of his staff. The husky nurse continued to slowly tend to Mark, and it was just the three of them in the tent until Barack invited the waiting patrons in, one at a time. The first man entered slowly.

"Hello, I'm Barack. Welcome, what's your name, sir?"

A round, sleepy-looking man crept through the thin door. He was still not all the way inside. He lifted his chins up and smiled shyly at POTUS, inching closer. He took another step, though it was hard to tell.

"Mo..." said the man in a long, long, low drawl. 

"Nice to meet you," Barack repeated, completing the both greet and the meet. The next person entered quickly. With the crowd spread out a little more, it was clear that outside was not actually massive Woodstock-like crowd, but more of a modest, busy-night-at-the-bowling-alley-sized crowd composed of very thick individuals.

"Hi, Mr. President!" an excited and squirrelly man said. His high energy shifted the energy of the room dramatically. "I'm Justin. Justin Turn. I'm an assistant to Wes S. Stern, so I'll be working with you later at the performance."

"Wow, a real rockstar roadie!" Barack replied. "You must have the life: wrangling up all the sexy groupies, getting to play fancy guitars. Maybe getting some of the overflow of groupies? WINK!"

"Actually my job isn't that glamorous," said Justin, suddenly, crucially deflated.

"Well, walk me through a typical day in the job," said Barack with a dorky, dad-ish curiosity.

"Well, Mr. Stern is obsessed with this particular trail mix they sell at Sam's Club. I mean, he eats tubs and tubs of it." Justin said. "It's this spicy Tex-Mex flavor. But it's got these little pretzel pieces that, for some reason, Mr. Stern can't stand. So basically, my job is to take those tubs of trail mix and then pick out all those pretzel bites."

The fun was sucked out of the room.

"Well,” said Obama, disappointed. “I guess when you're making that big music-industry money, it doesn't hurt to do something tedious."

"Oh yea, well," Justin recoiled. "I don't really get paid presently. I'm just sort of... Interning?"

Barack knew he had a shitty job but was never bitter about it; he'd finally be relieved of it in a year. Mark had an outright meaningless job too, though he was still young - a cocktail of naïveté, denial, and pretentiousness was numbing his awareness. The nurse's job brought her no joy, but as an immigrant, she was happy to be working in America. (Ironically enough, here she was in the same room as the President and she didn't even recognize him.) But this man, Justin Turn, now he had a shitty job. His sad description made the others plunge their eyes in pity.

Social Media Mark suggested, "It seems like it'd be easier to just make a custom trail mix and not even bother with the pretzel bites or the pre-made tubs. And I'm sure a star like Wes S. Stern could afford it." Mark was nothing if not solutions-oriented.

"Lasses," said Mo Lasses, who was still standing there and had, evidently, just now finished his introduction. 

"Well who else do we have out there? Huh?" Barack asked, eager to find the least awkward person in the crowd.

A little scallion of a boy walked into the tent, like Oliver Twist come alive. It was like when the Brady Bunch added the little redheaded kid, finally it all made sense! This was who Barack was destined to reach: the next generation. The children, the future, and the whole point of this Southern journey. If Barack could connect to the youth, his Presidency would really mean something. He even thought of a hashtag: #legacy.

"What's your name, young blood?" Barack asked.

"Mountain Dew X-Box Earnhardt," said the boy. He gave Obama a frosty scowl, with eye contact quite uncommon for someone of his generation.

"Ha ho," Barack chuckled with unintended condescension. "Now I've met some folks recently with very interesting names, but I've got to ask: what kind of parents name their kid Mountain Dew X-Box Earnhardt?"

Without missing a beat, MDXE fired back, "I don't know. Let's say: two rural, lower-class fourteen-year-olds who become pregnant because they don't have things like sex education, upward economic mobility, or general cultural sophistication - but instead are completely fluent in the capitalist clichés of advertisement, entertainment, and a sort of ignorant, savage excess; the values indoctrinated in the lower class by the bourgeois, for the sake of the bourgeois."

"Errmm..." Barack said through his uncomfortable, body-clinching confusion.

"Or let me put that another way," MDXE cocked his head, tossing his shaggy blonde hair away from his eyes. "I guess you could say my folks are rednecks who don't know any better. But why don't they? Is it their fault? Or is it simply in the best interest of "the system" that these lower-class hillbillies keep breeding and consuming? Not organize, or even vote in their own interest. Just keep having babies, and keep feeding them McDonald's. Keep buying the products they’re supposed to buy, and keep sending crooks and oligarchs to DC to live the American dream."

Obama was stunned. "Great to meet you Mountain Dew X-Box Earnhardt. I have to go."

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸