This is the week thatLeBron has made, let us rejoice and be glad! America's favorite Black Athlete-Jesus has elected himself Emperor of Miami, which will surely make Elian Gonzalez regret returning home to the Bay of Pigs. But what of our Black President-Jesus? How did he fare this week? Was he given shiny billions of dollars to leave the dowdy, depressed, but weirdly cool city of Cleveland, where his only friend was Harvey Pekar? Haha, no, you have mistaken Barack Obama for LeBron James, the man of whom I spoke in the lede to this Pulitzer Prize-winning column. These are two different black persons.

We turn now to my very favorite YouPorn film, West Wing Week. If it were not for this enchanting series, I would not know every element of Barack Obama's schedule, and I would be both vexed and flummoxed, and possibly even kerfluffled.

Last Friday, in keeping with Afro-American tradition, Barry kicked off his weekend by attending the funeral of an ex-Klansman. He gave a stirring eulogy in which he fondly remembered all the times Senator Robert Byrd had called him Toby.

West Wing Week is silent on the subject of Barry's Saturday activities, which means he is cheating on Michelle, with a Real Housewife.

On Sunday, he celebrated his kid's birthday and had a ginormous barbecue on the South Lawn of the White House. The ghost of Robert Byrd appeared and demanded a mint julep and fresh horses, for to traverse the mountain road and go down to the holler to fetch an escaped slave-mistress. When no one was looking, Michelle kicked him in the wrinkly ghost-balls. Poof! He disappeared, off to the Great Beyond, where he will spend an eternity explaining why he wrote things like, "Rather I should die a thousand times, and see old Glory trampled in the dirt never to rise again, than to see this beloved land of ours become degraded by race mongrels." Huzzah!

Monday is Funday at the White House, which is why West Wing Week again mysteriously fails to give a rundown of our chief executive's activities. Every Funday, Obama gets together with Rahm Emanuel to shoot fish in barrels and then throw the bullet-riddled bodies of the dead fish at elderly nuns. "Your Christ can't save you now!" they scream, in between the abortions they are always performing on local tweens.

On Tuesday, Barack let Benjamin Netanyahu visit his house, so that he could give him several more billions of dollars for that giant U.S. military outpost, "Israel." Barack tried to find Rahm so that they could tell Bibi about all the fish and fetuses they'd killed on Funday, but Rahm was busy taking a casual shit in the Lincoln Bedroom and daydreaming about all the arabesques and plies he's gonna do in his future office as Chicago Mayor-for-Life.

Wednesday Obama talked about exports, and how we export them. Our best American exports are sloth, shitty food, weapons, idiocy, doom, and Kardashians.

Something happened Thursday, but I cannot remember, as I spent Thursday reading Sappho.

Now it is Friday, a day I shall honor by sending David Vitter a jumbo pack of diapers, finally answering an email from Lauri Apple and then tweeting at Jack Stuef, Josh Fruhlinger, and Ken Layne. And of course, I'll be saving up all my energy to tackle the single greatest piece of literature ever created in America, meaning, whatever Maureen Dowd half-asses on Sunday. Enjoy your weekend, Children of the Partially Hydrogenated Corn Syrup.

Sara Benincasa has a side business promoting people's personal Twitter feeds. Ask her about it, her rates are surprisingly reasonable!


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