Obama Rama Ding Dong

Here’s the question of the day.  Every self-respecting day should have one question all its own if you ask me.  It should be a question of impact and import, not just any old question that can be easily ignored as you pretend to be busy thinking deep thoughts while discreetly picking your nose, which is never discreet.

Because the question must be a question that is all profound and durable and all, which means it won’t bug off no matter how much it is humiliated, debased, and ignored by the whitewashed mainstream, the day of reckoning may be a long or short day, one of those days that spills into the next day like a so-called urban river that is really only a concrete drainage ditch designed to haul raw sewage to the formerly pristine, clear blue sea, or one of those days that follows another day like like a puppy naively sniffing the ass of a big dog that is clearly way out of its league, or even one of those surly, insecure days that is trying to stand out on its own while looking for serious recognition as the start of a three day weekend.  I sure do hope it’s a day that’s coming, if not soon, then soon thereafter.

Because, as questions go, in a world where so many questions hardly need to be asked anymore because so many institutional types claim to have all the answers bound, gagged, pre-packaged and freezer wrapped,  for simple consumption either on the premises or in handy take-out tote bags for easy ingestion elsewhere,  this one is starting to look like it better be asked fast, before the piggy toed natives start to rising up like a menacing red tide of algae and stink up the joint.

So, I’m not saying.  I’m just asking.  So, don’t go getting all uppity on my ass.

But, is Obama’s inner white man oppressing Obama’s outer black man?

We all know in the external skin department that Obama is half and half.  Or perhaps even quarters and eighths may be lurking in the vicinity, with minor quotients of snippets, squirts, and trickles of this and that thrown in to add up to one abstractly post-modern whole.   Or maybe if we don’t know, we should have known.  In that, however, he is hardly alone.  Nowadays, all you have to do is peek out from any fortified bunker and you can see what’s happening all over, even in most of those places where they still say there ought to be a law. Some people claim they can’t recognize who Obama has become but I think that may be because those same people never saw him very clearly right from the starting point, back when they were scanning the acrid scene in the hinterlands for so-called hope, and assumed that Obama was conveniently standing right beside where they happened to be standing for no better reason than to provide them comfort.   In that case, what can a poor boy really say or do?  Who was that famous smart guy who said that stupid is as stupid does?  After all, it’s Michael Jordan who is the celebrity from Chicago sporting the fashionably retro Hitler moustache that you need to be concerned with, if you ask me.   All the demographically cool suburban kids still want to be like him, not Obama.

Let’s look at the evidence carefully, though, because as usual, when it comes to politicians, basic lies are the basic currency of exchange, the bigger, badder, bolder, and more brash and brazenly straight-faced the better, and potentially more valuable, leaving what remains as an invariably murky and distorted puddle of piss, spit, shit, cum, and mud to waddle into.

I think that’s what you get for electing to all of your public offices such practiced, professional liars, characterized by white teeth, tall tales, loopy spins, manicured nails, and clunky, red noses sniffing out sex in public toilets.  I’m saying you, not me, because I don’t roll over and beg like that.  I am a true believer in the gospel of George Carlin and I ain’t no stinking rat or lemming either.   In his, and my opinion as well, it only seems fair and reasonable that the only ones with the right to complain are the ones who don’t have anything to do with voting for any of these ass wipers.  If you vote, you logically get what you deserve.  You get what goes around, when it comes around.  The only box I would consider defacing, when it finally becomes available, as it will, is the one marked None of the Above.   At least, it’s a start.  Lesser of evils, indeed.  Until then, why not stop doing the same dumb thing over and over again by voting for the same bunch of crappy liars?  I don’t think we really need an Einstein to calculate the equation.

Lawyers we all know about, because after all, lying when they have access to the truth is the alpha dog dominatrix of their comically, self-serving ethics, but what about the actors and the glittering new reality show stars like Todd and Sarah Palin, where a good, outlandish batch of lies not only leads to rewards and applause, but to a seat behind an endangered mahogany desk and a bejeweled hammer with which to bang the gong.  I can’t remember who was first, George Murphy or Ronald Reagan, but there’s something to be said for lying with a smile like that.  By that standard, the habitual parasites who lie and cheat to put bread and pasta on the table to feed the lowly leeches who are just starting out look like a bunch of cheap ass pikers who merely walk out on the bill and tip a crummy ten or twelve percent.

Anyway, back to the evidence.  This, to me, is the crux of the weighty matter:  Obama can shoot some pretty sweet hoops, granted, but either he can’t dance for real, or perhaps even more sad and shocking, he’s faking it so convincingly for public consumption.

No matter which of those sides comes out on top, I can see that there’s some shaky ground to be standing on, which parenthetically derives from a tune originally crooned by The Temptations before most of you were born, not some more familiar whitish guy named Delbert who you can plug into and believe you discovered via dollar downloads.

I tend to think you can tell a hell of a lot more about a man by how he does or does not dance than just about any other public exposure, even more than how he plods, ambles, strolls, or sashays.  Most whiter shades of men refuse to try to dance unless drunk, and then it’s usually too bad they bothered to try. Can be scary or horrifying too.  Sometimes it can get downright ugly enough for the police to be called.  Might as well stick your neck out and gobble like a free range turkey.

When you play basketball you can get away with jumping straight up and down like a pogo stick, but to dance you need to use some hips to shake and shimmy, unless you pretend to be some kind of so-called alternative nerd who worships icons and idols of malnutrition, in which jumping up and down like a pogo stick counts as a serial rite of deference,  but in my opinion that’s no more dancing than Vanilla Ice is singing.  I guess that may be what’s called the rub, and I don’t mean a pick set on that aide of Obama’s who went to Duke and anyone can see is black without looking too hard.

I mean, c’mon, you invite Stevie Wonder to sing for his dinner and then you just stand around and gawk next to the tight ass, pasty faced fat cats, while the ladies from the choir are jiggling in the rear.  You clap your hands together like a goober in an arc as wide as some phony pony rainbow while your eyes roll to the back of your head.  Next, Obama will be taking in the snooty dog show at Madison Square Garden and throwing soppy, milk bones to the choke collar crowd.  Plus, he goes to India where his wife is rocking out five feet away from him, and obviously just tapping the surface of what she’s got bubbling inside, and he raises one arm and both eyes to the sky and bobs up and down like some rodeo clown with a big Adam’s apple.   There’s an old cartoon character named Thumper that I’m trying to think of but it’s probably best I can’t.  I’m waiting for Obama to slap his knees and yell yahoo and yippie-yi-ki-yay as proof he means no offense to all the crackers who hate his guts.  Or yodel.  He could just as well have been some Republican back there in Jaipur with his jowls hanging down to the tips of his patent leather loafers, a Republican trying to make sure for the sake of national security that his double Windsor knot is tied straight and not to be confused with the wrinkles emanating from his neck.  It could have been Joe Lieberman, and who the hell knows what to make of that droopy, sad sack.

You see, when it comes down to it, if you want to get somewhere, you need to make some tracks.

As the little red hen said to the little red rooster, “you got to rock me.”

As some anonymous Jew from South Philly named Jerry wrote a long time ago, which was then sung and made famous by the late Solomon Burke, and was subsequently sung and made far more famous by the also late Janis Joplin, “you got to get it while you can.”

That may not be the answer, or even words to live by considering the connection those words seem to have with being dead, but that does not mean that the answer is not out there floating in the ether, still to be discovered.

One day the answer will rise up and become known, I know. Otherwise, as I’ve been told, you can’t get no satisfaction.

I’m talking about him, not me.

I’m still waiting.


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
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