On love and B.O.

Currently, as we speak, Secret Service men are tapping my cellphone and hacking my Gmail account because I’ve been flagged as a potential fan-amaniac of one, Barack Obama.  This is partially because I Googled “Barack Obama’s Dayton motorcade” to see if he might drive by my house, and partially because my boyfriend has an affinity for political uprising non-fiction and does a lot of internet ordering.  I’m hopeful I’ll be flagged as a nut job and when I’m brought in for questioning I’ll get a free bumper sticker or at least get my photo taken in one of Henry Kissinger’s famous interrogation rooms.

I had been debating if it would be possible to enroll at U.D. and be elected class President within the next hour and half so that I could share the suite and/or a soft pretzel with with Prez.  I vetoed the idea when I realized I didn’t have anything to wear and decided maybe I’d just have to scalp a ticket and pretend to be famous political figure stopping by to discuss the U.S. position in Syria.  I’ve watched like a million SNL presidential debate skits, so I’m pretty confident in my ability to sound identical to both Hilary Clinton AND Al Gore.  At least I have a way better shot at that than I do pretending I know anything about basketball.

I’m pretty bound and determined to hang out with Barack and/or get him to wave in my general direction.  In my humble and incredibly right opinion, Obama’s like the Marvin Gaye of the presidential world (without the beanie).  And in no way is that a race thing, or even a homosexual joke, but instead, an analogy for his smooth talking, soul singing, handsome faced ways that stole my political and literal heart in ’08.  Of course, like anyone who listens to NPR (or at least reads Yahoo news), I feel incredibly blasé about his lackluster foreign policy and his all talk and no walk social reforms.  But when push comes to shove, it’s not so different from my feelings about the weird, slutty skirt this girl I know always wears when we go out.  It’s kinda crampin my style, but it gets the job done.  She’s not naked after all.  And neither is America.  Whatever that means…

In the end, whether I get to meet the old Commander-in-Chief or not, I’m terribly excited and very much in love with the idea that our little recession ridden town is going to be graced by, shall we say, the George Clooney of politics. (JFK swooners, feel free to disagree, but I maintain he’s more of a Richard Gere)

You know that song about the grandma that’s riding white horses in pink pajamas around a mountain?  I’ve been singing my own version of the diddy as I plot out potential celebratory parade routes and take occasional peaks out the window so I can be ready when he comes a over for a tall cold one and a moving round of karaoke.

Obama’s coming round the mountain, here he coooooomes,
He’ll be wearing pink pajamas when he cooooomes,
Oh we’ll all all come out to meet him, oh all we’ll all come out to meet him, oh we’ll all come out to meet him when he coooooomes!

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