Dear Mr. Obama:
Did you ever see the movie Big Jim McLain? We’re guessing probably not—for one thing, it stars John Wayne, and we don’t see you as a John Wayne guy, besides which it opens with a salute to the hard-working members of the House Un-American Activities Committee. We’re guessing you’d rather appear in an NRA commercial than display a scintilla of sympathy for an anticommunist bunch like HUAC. But that’s not important now. What’s important is Daniel Webster.
The Webster Paradigm
We’ve seen media reports that you’re quite the scholar, Mr. Obama, so we needn’t remind you that Daniel Webster was the American statesman who twice served in the House of Representatives (for New Hampshire and Massachusetts) and then in the Senate (for Massachusetts) between and 1813 and 1827. No, not the guy who wrote the dictionary. That was Noah. No, not the Noah who built the ark—but anyway—the reason we thought of Daniel Webster as we began this effort to help you compose a true accounting of your presidency is because in Big Jim McLain there’s this spooky scene where you see Webster’s gravesite on a lightning-riven night, and the narrator intones these lines from Stephen Vincent Benet:
“Yes, Dan’l Webster’s dead—or, at least, they buried him. But every time there’s a thunderstorm around Marshfield, they say you can hear his rolling voice in the hollows of the sky. And they say that if you go to his grave and speak loud and clear, “Dan’l Webster—Dan’l Webster!” the ground’ll begin to shiver and the trees begin to shake. And after a while you’ll hear a deep voice saying, “Neighbor, how stands the Union?” Then you better answer the Union stands as she stood, rock-bottomed and copper-sheathed, one and indivisible, or he’s liable to rear right out of the ground.”
Please don’t misinterpret that as a threat, sir. True, you wouldn’t pass muster, but we understand your public persona demands pretensions to patriotism, even as you chirpily dissemble your record in that sing-song manner to which we’ve all grown achingly accustomed. You did a good job of this last January on the occasion of your most recent farewell address. Presidents traditionally use such events to voice concerns and hopes for the Nation’s future, but somewhat unsurprisingly, you used the occasion to review what you perceived to be your greatest moments in office. As journalist Caroline Baum remarked, “Why wait for others to assess your legacy when you can do it yourself?” But even the perspicacious Baum failed to note the dichotomy between the legacy you described, and your actual accomplishments—or between what Comrade Lenin called truth and objective truth.
We understand how frustrating it must be to continuously burble misleading flummeries while no proper recognition can be given your genuine achievements as an agent of the Islamo-Fascist Left. Like Dostoyevsky’s Raskolnikov, you must find the thrill of getting away with the perfect crime dampened by the realization that nobody appreciates your brilliance. So in what follows, we at WOOF offer you an opportunity to give a complete accounting of the blows you rained upon the Republic, offered mainly for the edification of a demonic dyad (see below) uniquely positioned to assess the impact of those blows, as well as to applaud those manifold instances in which your famously incomputable intellect sufficed to keep you several steps ahead of the clueless bourgeoisie.
Ben Franklin wrote that ““Three May Keep a Secret if Two are Dead,” and that’s exactly what occurred to us while pondering how best to help you catalog your rascality without risking discovery by the masses. Our plan works a lot like Binet’s–only without Daniel Webster, of course–he being an old, dead White guy who’d throttle you on sight. No, for Binet’s framework to fit our purpose, an antithetic approach was required entailing a very different historical icon–one occupying a very different gravesite. An iconic figure sympatico with your unwaivering revolutionary convictions. We refer here, of course, to Fidel Castro.
The Devil and Fidel Castro
You will doubtless have occasion in the not too distant future to revisit the imprisoned island of Cuba, upon which you recently lavished so much favor, even as you conveyed to its tyrannical leadership so many overt and implicit apologies for the sins of your predecessors. Once arrived and sumptuously quartered in environs palatial enough to gobsmack the average Cuban, you will want to seek out the resting place of Fidel Castro. As you know, his ashes are interred inside a big concrete blob at Santiago’s Santa Iphigenia Cemetery. It’s supposed to be a kernel of corn, but it looks more like the Rubbles’ house in Bedrock. Anyway, the point is, you will want to make a pilgrimage there the better to reenact the Big Jim McLain scene, mutatis mutandis. We suggest you cry out, “Primer Ministro Presidente, Comandante Fidel!” And imagine your thrill when he thunders back, “Comrade, how goes the struggle for el socialismo?”
(Except he will probably add remarks amounting to three or four additional hours of your time, in that inimitably loquacious way of his. So bring a book. After all, Fidel’s penchant for giving five-hour speeches to audiences forbidden to leave their seats on pain of death or imprisonment, makes him the only world leader to have used–and on myriad occasions–even more personal pronouns per speech than yourself. But then again, because Fidel gave such long speeches, he had more opportunities to praise himself than you had in your (comparatively) brief addresses. Judging the matter on an hourly rather than a per-speech basis, you’d win hands down. Take your speech in Austin back in 2014. You spoke for only 40 minutes, but managed to employ the pronouns “me,” “my,” and “I” one-hundred and ninety-nine times. Did you know, the entire Gettysburg Address only lasted about three minutes? It contains a measly 272 words– and Lincoln didn’t use a single personal pronoun in the whole speech. What a wallflower!
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So, when Fidel finally finishes you must grab the opportunity to say something like: ”The struggle for socialism, unh, goes pretty well, and, unh, I really stuck it to the unh, Yanquis who are so stupido they –-hah–elected me for two, unh, consecutive terms, and unh…” And…see the problem? Here’s where WOOF can really help out, because, that’s right: There’s no place to plug in a teleprompter at Fidel’s concrete lump, and even if there were, Cuban electrical power is notoriously spotty—did you remember to apologize for that? Anyway, you know how you get when you try to ad lib! So print these articles out, Mr. President, and bring them with you (if you can even get WOOF articles into Cuba, which come to think of it probably isn’t all that easy, but you’ve got pull.) Stick to our comprehensive script and we bet Fidel will just about jump right out of his cement blob and give you a big comradely smooch.
But don’t draw the line at impressing your hero in the big grey blob…no, he’s just the intermediary–like a medium at a seance–or a big cigar-chomping ouija board. What matters most is to impress the big guy himself–El Diablo. You know: Iblīs— did we get that right?–you know who we’re talking about, and he’ll be listening all right, Mr, President–the third person in Franklin’s trilogy. Okay, he’s not dead like Fidel, but he’s not alive like we mortals–so Franklin’s maxim still applies. The Devil can keep a secret all right! So here’s what to say; stick to the script we’ve provided and you’ll do fine!
———Begin reading your statement HERE, Mr. President: ————
“To begin with, right from birth I was the cause of confusion and dissent, only most of it didn’t boil over until I ran for president. See, I was born on August 4th in Mombasa—that’s in Kenya—in 1961, just a year before the Americans blundered into the Bay of Pigs, isn’t that right Comandante? LOL! Anyway, I always told everyone I was born in Kenya; but by the time I was running for senate, comrades like Bill Ayers, Bernardine Dohrn, and Carl Davidson— started to worry abut that. I know the Comandante knows Carl, because he personally contacted him and told him America was ready for revolution, remember? Anyway, as soon as my fellow radicals, ex-weather underground mentors and a few of my favorite CPUSA-type professors came up with the idea of my national political career, they pointed out I had to be born in America—just in case I ever tried running for president. Those were some smart folks, guys—I mean—Fidel and—Mr. Devil, sir, or…can I call you Iblis? Maybe just Old Nick!
Multiple births, multiple mysteries:
“After all the advice I got, I realized I was probably born in Honolulu, Hawaii, (coincidentally, on the same day that I was born in Mombasa) so Hawaii became my updated birthplace, even though I seem to have registered as a foreign student in college. And there were all those brochures left around from 1995 publicizing my forthcoming book, Journeys in Black and White–which never actually forthcame, heh, heh, saying I ‘was born in Kenya and raised in Indonesia and Hawaii.’ In fact, my Kenyan birth was still going strong as recently as 2007 as publicity for my next book–which actually did get written. I liked the Kenyan version because being a real African always impresses “African Americans” cuz, let’s face it, the majority of ’em couldn’t find Africa on a map–and real Africans always leave white liberal academicians gasping in awe, so the Kenyan angle worked great. To tell you the truth, near as I’m able, I’m not exactly sure where I was born anymore–I was pretty young at the time. But I think we can agree that confusion is a mighty weapon we wield against the forces of capitalism, reaction, and all those backward hayseed southern fundamentalist churches that won’t support partial-birth abortion or transgender bathroom rights…you know, like the Catholics.
“But honestly, fellas, the truth is, Hillary really did start the whole “birther” thing back in ’08, like Trump said, only I’d never tell anybody else that. For starters, she sees all these memos and oppo-research findings about my total disconnect from anything authentically American–a fact I take great pride in, by the way–but politically not so good! Next, in unmistakable Clinton style– the emails get ‘leaked’ saying I’m Kenyan–or Jakartan, or Indonesian–and when everybody runs back to Hillary and asks her ‘Why are you sayin’ all this horrible stuff about Barack?’ (Because by then, remember, the media were trampling her in a mad rush over to my side), so she just pulls that bug-eyed face of hers where she looks like she’s never ever been so shocked in her life, you know–eye balls popping out of her head–and –classic Clinton–she turns around and fires the loyal staffers she had leaking this stuff, and tells the press, ‘oh–we traced those memos to a few renegade staffers but I got rid of them.’
“I mean those Clintons, you gotta admire their style– their knack for looking self righteous while they pump out whatever garbage they just made up– I have to say, I’m a big fan. I’ve certainly tried doing it like that, but when I go for indignation I just come off snotty, so mostly I try to act suave and highbrow, but that bores people after a while, except Charlie Rose. I think I’m going more urban Black from here on out, droppin’ muh final G’s, an’ soundin’ like ah’m from the Chicago hood ‘stead of Indonesia by way of Hawaii. And just between us comrades, thousands of my admirers will totally buy the idea that I’m all of a sudden talking like Charlie Rangel or somebody, because, let’s face it, they’re morons–but I say, praise Allah for making so gosh darn many of ’em! Can I get an amen?
The road to the Whitehouse…
“Okay, some funny things happened on my way to the Oval Office–at first, of course, I didn’t think I could win. Like everybody, I figured Hillary was a shoe in, so I just wanted to get my face out there. I never doubted I could beat John McCain–that guy has the electability of a brain damaged tuber–plus, I swear he was rooting for Hillary–but everything changed when the mainstream media just all of a sudden seemed to decide I was the guy. Like somebody pulled a switch. Okay, let’s face it, somebody did–so let’s give kudos to George Soros here, before I go any farther. Me and George go back to 2004 when he threw me a fundraiser at his New York mansion. Up until then, there wasn’t any real money behind me because most of my supporters were communists or former Weather Underground terrorists– and the only work those people can get with that kind of background is pretty much limited to tenured positions at major universities. But Soros smeared my opponent and got me elected in Illinois, after which I served about 700 days, and ran for President!
Wright and Wrong
“So the next big deal was my history at Jeremiah Wright’s church, which we thought might end my chances, because there’s tons of video tape of him saying stuff like ‘God damn America’ and ranting about the Jews, and White people, except that none of the mainstream networks played those parts. So, I just claimed I sat in his church for 20 years, and never heard a word, which was obviously ridiculous—especially with him being my kids’ Godfather and one of my books being dedicated to him and quoting him about “the white man’s greed”and stuff–but the liberal media held solid and covered it up. In retrospect, we totally overestimated the damage Wright could do me—first because voters just dopily accepted the idea that I sat nodding like a bobble doll in his church for 20 years and never heard a word he said, but also when stuff came out about how he’d mentored me and counseled me politically the whole time, we just called it right-wing nonsense. When it came out he taught Liberation Theology, which is really Marxism, as you fellas well know, the press didn’t go near it. And when that jackass Ed Klein Read more…