Barack Obama Would Like To Know What Bon Jovi Thinks
Well, hello, Wonketteers! This will presumably be the last "Barry Can You Hear Me?" of whatever year it is, so I'd like to take a moment to thank all of you knuckle-draggers for straining your third-grade reading skills in order to absorb the pure genius I spew at you each and every Friday. What a glorious reward it is for you, the unwashed masses, to take a break from your jobs at the scrimshaw shop and the local cooperage franchise in order to have a brief meditative moment scanning this lady-scrivener's intellectual dispatches from the heart of Obama Fandonia, a kingdom that I rule with an iron pussy. Speaking of Barack, let's see what that handsome scamp got up to this week!
On Monday, your President and First Lady went to the Harriet Tubman Elementary School in D.C. to sign something wacky called the Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act. It is supposed to improve school nutrition for the fat fucks you call your children. But will it do anything to improve the state of your pantry at home? Haha, of course not. Do not worry: You are free to continue giving your children Cap'n Crunch for breakfast, lunch, and dinner without fear of government intervention. Enjoy watching little Madison's gums bleed from the razor-sharp sugar puffs while her teeth drop out of her head!
On Tuesday, Obama created the White House Council for Community Solutions. Like all effective White House endeavors, it counts Jon Bon Jovi as a member. He didn't show up at the ceremony, and neither did Michelle Obama. Clearly, someone was busy laying someone else down in a bed of roses, presumably in the Rose Garden. This would explain why Bo suddenly raised his head from his Oval Office doggie bed during the signing ceremony and wailed, "For toniiiiight I sleep on a beeeed of naaaaails, ohhhhhhhh!" Then, obviously, he screamed "Hey hey mama, said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove!" Because he is a BLACK DOG YOU FUCKERS DO I NEED TO SPELL IT OUT GOD.
On Wednesday, Bam-Bam met with "some of America's top CEOs" to discuss "ways to get the economy moving again." Later, he met with "some of America's bottom CEOs" to discuss "the importance of anal douche before a first date." These Power Bottoms, as they are known, then disseminated the information to all their fellow twinks, bears, and fire-queens in such homoerotic locations as Adams-Morgan, Chelsea, and your son's bedroom (surprise!)
On Thursday, Barazzle O'Dazzle expounded on the Afghanistan-Pakistan Annual Review. Remember back in the day before your dying company imposed a hiring freeze and a pay freeze? You used to have things called "annual performance reviews." They would tell you it was no cause for alarm, it was just a way to make sure you and the boss were "on the same page." But everyone knew that was bullshit, and it sure as hell didn't keep Doris from Accounts from guzzling Xanax with her morning quart of coffee. You never spoke of the time you got the best performance review in your department, though everyone begrudgingly congratulated you when it was announced in the e-newsletter. You didn't speak of it because in that meeting, for the first time ever, you looked into your boss's eyes and saw a fellow man, not just an empty suit. And he returned your gaze, and a look of deep, quiet knowing passed between the two of you in a way that rarely happens in competitive corporate culture. By the time his cock was buried deep in your surprisingly accommodating asshole, you had transcended the boss-employee relationship and moved on to something greater, something stronger, something almost mystical in its holiness.
Anyway, politics. This is how it is with the U.S. and Afghanistan/Pakistan, except we only assfuck them metaphorically (with bombs at their creepy arranged-marriage medieval Muslim wedding parties) and also they are terrible employees. Do they know it's Christmas time at all? Do YOU know when the fuck Ramadan is? The answers are "Yes" and "No," so let's raise a glass of egg nog to these bassackwards nations and fire off one more round of Predator drones before Santa drops a giant lump of Kleen Koal down our collective chimney in the form of another terrorist attack. Merry Christmas, fuckers!