The Self Parody Administration
President Obama woke up restless. His vision was so grand, so all-encompassing, he could not let any detail slip from his imagination. He donned his pink bunny slippers and slipped out the backdoor of the White House kitchen for a smoke.
The pinkish glow of the morning sun yawned over the horizon and glossed the capitol dome, whose fuzzy glare made it resemble an overripe peach for the plucking.
As he struck the match and lit his Kool cigarette, he contemplated all the CFCs being emitted into the atmosphere from non-prescription asthma inhalers. Those would have to go, he resolved.
The president threw down his half-lit cig onto the lot, ground it into the asphalt, and chortled while he imagined a teabagger. Why would anyone but a racist oppose his agenda to introduce some compassion into the system?
Entering the kitchen he bumped into Juan, the head chef.
“What’s on the menu today, Juan?” Obama said, grasping his stubbly chin.
“Salmon tartar, asparagus tips…” the cook said pleasingly.
“Cool all that noise. We’re ordering pizza. There’s that great little place in St. Louis…”
“But Mr. President, won’t the pizza get a bit…cold?” Juan replied, perplexed. “And also,” he added nervously, “what about the health plan the Mrs. came up with?”
“Oh, right.” He paused and then sighed. “We’ll just fly the chef in to make pizza here,” the president said, dreading his explanation to Michelle. “Let me handle her.”
“Yes, sir!” Juan said and threw the asparagus in the trash.
The president made his way back to the Lincoln bedroom, where Michelle was already up and eating breakfast in bed. Before her was a spread of Belgian waffles, sausage patties dribbled in Nova Scotian maple syrup, and a tall glass of Valencia orange juice.
“Good morning, honey,” she said, putting down her fork. “You’re up early, as usual.”
“I just keep wondering how we’re going to get my agenda through with so much public opposition. The Republicans…they’re no problem. But these tea party guys…”
“Oh, don’t worry about them. We’ve got the media in the bag. Come sit down and have a few waffles.”
“About that…” the president started in. “I made a few…alterations to today’s menu.” He took a breath. “I’m ordering pizza. From St. Louis.”
“Barry, how could you? Michelle said indignantly. “You know I have that school lunch menu presentation. And then we have the shakedowns of McDonald’s and Darden restaurants later…”
“Don’t worry honey. The outrage will pass,” the president sat down next to her and stroked her black glistening hair. “We’ll do something even more outrageous tomorrow and the public will get over it.”
Michelle looked him in the eyes, and after a moment, smiled and resumed eating.
“You’re right, baby,” she said, chewing her waffle and then swallowing. “Now I know why I married you.”
“I’ve got to run honey. I have to take the Beast to the airport, and then on to Air Force One to fly to northern Virginia to give a speech on curbing carbon emissions.”
“Oh, do you know what you’re going to say about the sky-high gas prices?” she said while the president fumbled with his tie. “Some people are complaining about your oil moratorium and all the fuel efficiency regulations.”
“I haven’t seen what TOTUS has in store for me yet,” he mumbled, exasperated.
“Well be sure to talk up that Chevy Volt,” she said. “And go after those nasty polluting coal plants.”
“Will do,” he said tersely, then threw his hands down in frustration. “I imagine I’ll give them some spiel about keeping their tires properly inflated.”
“Will you come here?” she said, laughing. He bent over and she fixed the president’s tie. “Red,” she said. “My favorite color.”
“I’ll just flash them that winning smile and they won’t even know what hit ’em,” the president said with a grin.
“You do that,” she replied. “And I’ll miss you.”
She stopped, and added as an afterthought, “Don’t you think you’re working too much lately?”
“Now, Michelle,” he replied. “You know I said I wouldn’t rest until we get this jobs picture under control. Besides, we’re taking another vacation Friday.”
“Oh goody,” she clapped excitedly, the syrup dribbling onto her chin. “Where are we going?”
“As far from the disapproval ratings as possible.”