The President, for what seemed like the hundredth time, peered out of the porthole window of Air Force One at the flat boring Gulf coast. All he could think was, “every time I try to get out, they keep pullin' me back in.” His thoughts of mosquitoes buzzing in his ears at all hours of the night and fish sandwiches filled with toxic waste just made his day. This was all Michelle’s fault, he thought. God damn her, why couldn’t she have just gone to Chicago, no she had to go halfway around the world with half of Chicago in tow, pissing off just about everybody in the country. Now, Axelrod had us down here trying to make up for her major faux paux.
His presidential balls were now starting to itch as the plane taxied to the waiting dignitaries. The poor guys were jammed into an undersized Speedo bathing suit that was acting as the President’s underwear. Since the suit material didn’t breathe very well he was now developing a wicked rash all through his groin area. He did it to save time in getting ready for the beach, but he figured wrong, which was indicative of most of his decisions these days. His family was seated on the other side of the plane, thank God, as he reached down hoping no one saw him pulling at his pants like a madman.
The trip to the beach for “the swim” photo-op took about an hour while all the time his need to itch grew worse. The convoy of SUV’s and the official Presidential limousine parked and the first family headed for the beach for the big shot of him in the oil polluted waters of the Gulf of Mexico. He was in Florida for this picture taking because everybody in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama hated him for shutting down the oil rigs that provided almost a hundred thousand jobs and they were really pissed at him.
As the first family ran onto the white sugar sand beach in the panhandle of Florida all he could think of was getting into the water to scratch the leader of the free world’s balls as the 561st day of the Obama Presidency was up to his neck in clear Gulf water oohing and ahhing.