The Presumptive Nominee

What are you doing, Barack? Going around the world telling them you’re taking over America? For them? Thanks a lot, pal. What does it take you reign you in? I’ll bet you’re wondering yourself. When you found yourself standing in front of the same-size crowd we used to see in movies of you-know-who – the Dark Lord – did it give you the creeps? Did you want to run? Did you shrink inside with the knowledge of what you’re becoming? Or did you swell with the power of the Ring?

You told them you’d bring them a humble America. Who’s talking there, Barack? You’re not a humble man, why the hell should the country humble itself for you? You know what, Bararck? I don’t feel humble. I don’t want a humble country. You know what humble people do? They put their faces on the ground and stick their asses in the air. So help me, if I ever catch your ass in the air, I’m going to wallop it like your Mommy should have. We don’t want a humble country. A step-and-fetch-it, shuffling, “Yes Massa” country. Do you, man? What’s happened to you?

Who are you speaking for? Not me. Not even your party. You’re not even the candidate yet, and by now a lot of us wish they could stop you from being one. You got too big, Barry. You’re telling lies about us. You said we would stop torture. Yeah? And you stop beating your wife, OK? Who’d you say that to? The Germans? The peoples who raised torture to a scientific endeavor? The French? The French are as fancy in torture as they are in sex. We’re not. We’re simple folks. We beat people up in the back of police stations. Yeah, yeah, there’s water-boarding. Not nice, but we did it to about three people, and we’ve stopped.

You’re apologizing for us. Don’t apologize for me, man. I’m not sorry. Not sorry to be the defender of freedom, of human dignity, of human life, around the globe. You go to these worms and tell them we’re sorry. These people in league with the people who sponsor human bombs. Who think more of their commercial deals than they do millions of people being ravaged by their “leaders.”

You want to sell us to the United Nations, a gang of world-class criminals. The organization that is so corrupt it can’t do a thing; the money just drains away into the pockets of the people they hire to do their work. An organization whose new Human Rights Council is composed of murderers and rapists. They’re some kind of joke, Barack, and you’re becoming one too. You want to bolster the World Bank. Don’t you know anything Barack? I shouldn’t know more than you do. These people are thieves. Ask the locals. Ask anyone who needs them. They take the money and live high on the hog. It doesn’t get where it’s supposed to go. Remember the despised Paul Wolfowitz? He blew the whistle on them. Everyone acknowledged it. And yet… there it is. Still there. And you want to feed it and make it bigger.

I don’t think I like you anymore, Barack. You’ve gone over there and bad-mouthed me. Who the fuck do you think you are? Are you who you told them you are? Then I don’t think I want you anymore. And I don’t think a lot of other people will want you now. A lot of us are proud of our history, proud of our position in the world. Some of us think the world needs us because we have a higher moral calling than they do. I’ll stand by that. I’m one of those old-fashioned guys who thinks he can tell good from evil. I see a man raping a woman, I think he should be stopped. I see a tyrant raping a country, I think he should be stopped. What do you think, Barack? It’s his own business? Maybe the poor guy didn’t get enough to eat when he was young? Wilt Chamberlain’s family was so poor his mother fed him potato peelings for dinner.

Come on home, Barack. Come home and get the beating you deserve. At the polls. The country is buzzing with discontent over the remarks you made on your vacation Those people clinging to their religion, and gloomy gun-owners, those people in small towns, on farms… they’re waking up. They have TV, you know. They saw you. They’re not happy. They think “you’ve been messin’ where you shouldn’t have been a messin’” They think maybe they’re going to have to come out and vote for the old white guy. They don’t want to; they don’t like going out. But they’re putting on their boots, baby – “gonna walk all over you.”

Care to apologize? To us?

I’m pissed, Barack. I think I’ll go outside and fire a few rounds up into the sky.