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?
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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.
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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!"
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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.
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"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.
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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."
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