It’s 9:17 PM on a sleepy Sunday night in Salt Lake City, UT -- in the avenues, to be precise.
It’s a quiet, friendly neighborhood, currently in the process of winding down after another day of civic excellence. It has been warm, but not hot, and a breeze floats through my open bedroom window, gently ruffling my Batman bed sheets. I am on the verge of falling asleep, awash in that meditative state that bleeds into unconsciousness, when I hear my front door open. This is odd since I am A) not expecting visitors and B) pretty certain that I locked it.
Before I am fully awake, I see a tall silhouette glide silently into my bedroom, and I hear a voice that I instantly recognize.
“Sorry to bother you,” the voice says, “but it’s been a hard few weeks and I needed a kindred spirit to talk to.”
Even in a startled and half-dozing state, it’s impossible to mistake Barack Obama, 44th President of these United States of America, for anybody else. Smoothly (I hope) I slide my well-thumbed copy of Jerome Corsi’s scorching 2011 bestseller ‘Where’s The Birth Certificate?’ into my bedside dresser drawer, along with my Ronald Reagan snow globe , and groggily roll out of bed.
“Mister President!” I say. “It has certainly been a while! Last time I saw you, you were rocking a crowd in Colorado so hard that I heard half of the men there left pregnant!”
“Colorado!” Barry responds with a wistful smile. “Gosh, that feels like a hundred years ago. Was that Grand Junction or Denver?”
“Grand Junction,” I say. “Good times,” the President says wistfully. “Hang on a tick,” I say, forgetting my manners but (to my credit) finally reacting in a quasi-awake fashion to the situation, “What are you doing here? And what’s this ‘kindred spirit’ stuff? Are you…are you going to kill me?”
“Nah,” Obama replies, “As I said in my masterful speech last week, the days of the United States government killing people without due process are over.”
“What? You didn’t say that AT ALL. In fact, you defended the use of drones and assured Americans that you’re going to continue using them.”
“Yeah, po-tay-to, po-TAH-to,” the POTUS dismisses me, looking askance at the framed Burt Reynolds nude print on my wall. “No! Stop! Stop that!” I cry, “And stop getting AWAY with it! Jesus, the same people who spent the Bush years rightly screaming to the heavens about extralegal detention are giving you a pass on extralegal execution!” Obama fixes one eyeball on me in a grim, appraising way and changes the subject. “The reason I’m here,” he says, “is to talk to you, brony to brony.” Immediately all the blood drains from my face. “How…what are you…”
“Let me be clear,” Obama says, “I haven’t told anyone else your secret…yet.”
The threat is there in his statement, but in an obtuse, cloudy way, like the critter in the center of one of those candy-covered insect suckers. “If you think that what Holder squeezed out of the AP constitutes executive overreach,” Obama continues quietly, “Wait until your friends and family get wind of what we squeezed out of your phone and your laptop.”
“IT’S A GOOD SHOW,” I yell, clearly thrown off of my game and onto the defensive.
“THE ANIMATION IS GREAT AND IT SENDS POSITIVE AND EMPOWERING MESSAGES TO CHILDR—“ “Bro hoof?” the President asks with a smirk, holding up his surprisingly large knuckles for a terrorist fist jab.
“Look,” I say, ignoring his hand, “this is getting ridiculous. In your little speech, you seemed more concerned about the misuse of the word ‘drone’ than by executive murder via joystick. First Bill Clinton, now you: how many free passes are ‘progressives’ and ‘liberals’ going to give to establishment conservatives posing as liberals? How many iterations of welfare reform and bank bailouts and aggressive foreign policy are we going to--"
I’m interrupted by an unearthly whine from the window, and when I glance up, I see the unmistakable silhouette of a fully armed Predator drone. Maybe I should feel flattered. After all, I'm hardly Alex Jones or Big Joe Farah .
“I’ll, ah, take that into consideration,” the President says. “Now, before things get going properly, let’s pour you into a pair of your very tightest slacks without underwear – I mean, so tight that you aren’t going to leave anything to the imagination – and get a couple of tall, lukewarm glasses of skim milk going. This party’s about to get weird.”
“Bro hoof?” he asks again. “Bro hoof,” I reply sadly.