Obama’s Frugal Vacation
Ch. 4, Who was behind the attack on Michelle’s derriere which made her the butt of Secret Service jokes?
NOTE: This is the 4th chapter of Obama’s frugal vacation. If you missed the first part, you can access it HERE – the second chapter is available HERE and the third chapter is available HERE. Ideally, they should be read in sequence. Be aware that they should also be considered “PG” rated for some adult language and situations.
It should also be noted that in writing this satire, I am following Rule Four created by one of Barack Obama’s heroes, Saul Alinsky (said to be the father of community organizing), who wrote in his book “Rules for Radicals” that “Ridicule is man’s most potent weapon.” I will do my best to honor his memory by ridiculing Barack Obama at every opportunity.
They also sent GPS coordinates to the doctor and he was on his way. Maybe things were looking up for our fearless travelers…
Benny Factor, DBM
It turns out that Doctor Benny Factor was not a real MD after all. He calls himself a doctor, but he’s only a doctor in the loosest form of the word, a “Doctor of Buttockal Manipulation” (DBM). He wears that proud title since he graduated from Bob’s Booty Academy in Hoboken.
Five days of intensive hands-on study of the female posterior (one day was devoted to super glue), and a ten question (true/false) examination resulted in a DBM diplomer (Bob couldn’t spell diploma) being granted to Dr. Factor. Now he could fondle all the butts he could get his hands on, reassuring his female patients by telling them, “It’s ok, I’m a doctor.”
He’d seen pictures of the First Lady’s meter-wide bottom and Dr. Benny wasn’t really enthusiastic about getting up close to Moochelle’s bum, but it was an opportunity for publicity that would be great for his practice.
Following his GPS to Riverside Park, he located the caravan and was brought to Airstream 9320 that would serve as the “operating” room.
Entering the trailer, he found the First Lady was ready, on her stomach on a couch. Her bottom was covered by a red-checkered tablecloth and an aide (Rachel Slurr) was standing by.
After brief introductions, the doctor began, “Well, let’s see what we have here.”
Slightly raising the tablecloth, Dr. Factor saw a white Bemis toilet seat, the Cadillac of cushioned seats, very nice … but … then … then … he saw Moochelle’s brown bottom and other stuff (look away, doc, look away!).
It was all he could do to keep his lunch down. This was going to be worse than he expected.
He’d have to use his Acme Bootyfree tool strictly by touch; he didn’t want to look directly at it. This would be tricky. He lifted the seat slightly to see how stuck it was. When he moved the seat, the attached blubber moved with it, causing Moochelle to release an inadvertent fart. But, dear reader, this was no ordinary passage of gas; no, it was more accurately described as the fart of a pregnant (and sick) water buffalo. It was one of those dreaded SBDs, and it just slowly hissssssessssssssssssed out – with a little wet burble at the end.
“Oh, my goodness, pardon me,” Moochelle laughed.
Yeah, maybe it was funny to her, but Dr. Benny saw his life pass before his eyes and saw a bright white light off in the distance. He was probably clinically dead for a minute or two from the noxious gas he’d inhaled.
Regaining his senses, he knew he couldn’t survive another fartal attack, so he had to act quickly – holding his breath, he doused his Acme Bootyfree with Acme Little Jiffy loosening solvent (nitromethane) and proceeded to roll it between the seat and her buttocks. Back and forth, back and forth, little by little, the vinyl seat released its grip on her bottom until finally, separation!
Moochelle felt the release and exclaimed, “Oh thank God.”
While Dr. Benny was separating seat from bottom, Rachel thought that she’d help out by lighting a match to burn off Moochelle’s noxious gas emission. She was startled when the flatus combined with the nitromethane fumes to produce a fuel-air flash … WHOOSH!
In something of a miracle, Dr. Benny escaped with only singed eyelashes, eyebrows, and arm hair and a decision to go into some other line of work. Moochelle had a case of the red ass, both literally and figuratively, and Rachel is now interviewing for a job as a bag lady.
Moochelle would ride the remainder of the trip standing up, riding in one of the Airstreams until her butt healed and she could sit again. By the way, don’t ever mention Boudreaux’s Butt Paste to her, unless you want to be beaten senseless.
Oz the magnificent returns
Just after Mochelle was separated from the toilet seat, and just as they were about to leave, a FedEx truck driver pulled up and delivered a special delivery package for Lucy Lasstic. It was OZ – the president’s teleprompter! Hallelujah! He would be able to speak coherently again!
In the short time before they departed, Lucy wrote Obama a brief pep talk as a kind of penance for forgetting to pack the teleprompter. The president did love being able to rouse his disciples with the power of his words. It warmed his cockles when he saw the adoration in their eyes and he really liked it when his cockles were all warm and toasty.
But there was a problem.
When the White House staff packed the TOTUS for shipment, they forgot to lock down the Freemish flange, so it was free to flop about (commando style). It flopped around a lot during the FedEx guy’s feverish drive from DC to Jacksonville. And everyone knows what kind of mischief can be caused by a freely flopping Freemish flange.
She quickly loaded her hastily written pep talk onto Oz’s hard drive so the president could use the teleprompter. He wanted to create some excitement for their final leg into Orlando. He was pleased to hear that Oz was back, he needed some good news.
“We’re about to leave, get Rhyce Aroni to help you set up and I’ll give ‘em a quick pep talk before we move out.”
Lucy and Rhyce set up the teleprompter in the bed of the yellow pickup and Obama would give his pep talk from there. He climbed aboard while the group started gathering around for his words of encouragement.
He was the consummate pro when it came to using a teleprompter. He had learned to turn off his own thought process and give himself totally to Oz, becoming “one with the machine.”
And now it was show time … Oz on … Obama off.
“Pooswallar num num, ahhh, frakin’ filamony, uhhh,” he paused, obviously confused, “ahhh bigmo sinkabooger, uhhh, and testicles for lunch … ahhh shit .” His final two words were the only ones that anyone understood (he adlibbed those).
He’d had enough … he looked directly at Lucy. If looks could kill, Lucy was stone cold dead. Her heart sank, Oz hadn’t worked right, and she’d be blamed. After this, she’d be lucky to find herself a part-time job as sous-chef on a roach coach. Obama glared at her.
And then he tried to recover by doing the same thing he’d done before, asking the crowd, “Y’all with me?” And a few clapped unenthusiastically, a few barely hooted, and a couple hollered. This bit was getting old.
Obama was really disturbed. He’d been disrespected again – by that damned TOTUS.
Before jumping down from the pickup, he was so upset he turned and angrily kicked out at the teleprompter. His kick missed and he banged his kneecap on the side of the pickup bed. He kicked again. This time he connected, hitting TOTUS, which promptly retaliated by banging into the president’s shinbone. He kicked once more and Oz promptly fell hard on Obama’s instep.
Finally, in pain and conceding defeat, he gave up. Obama was helped down and limped away, pissed at losing a fight with his teleprompter.
Funny thing was, bystanders said they could swear that they saw a grin on Oz’s screen.
Where’s my Obama money?
Putting the teleprompter debacle behind them, they left Riverside Park and soon were driving down the road again. Finally the convoy was once more heading south on I-95.
Approaching St. Augustine, the lead pickup, driven by AC (Agent in charge) Phil Landerer, was surprised to see a toll booth ahead. He hadn’t been made aware of any toll portions of I-95 down here in Florida.
Their over-limit credit cards were not an option, no matter; they might be able to talk their way through it since this was the president’s caravan. Besides, he didn’t know how much the toll would be it (they’re usually based on axles) and would take forever to gather and distribute the cash to pay each rig’s toll as they passed through.
As luck would have it, the president was riding in the very last unit. They made a quick stop to bring him up to the lead pickup in the hopes that he could play the “president” card, and convince the toll taker to allow the caravan to pass without paying. The president’s vacation caravan ought to have some special privilege.
The lead truck finally made it to the Cash Only booth. A large black woman barely looked in their direction as she said automatically, “Ten dollars, please.”
Obama leaned forward, smiled broadly and waved at the toll taker. He was confident that she would light up, smile and exclaim how proud she was of him, and happily wave the whole convoy through.
“You really Obama?” she asked. He did look like the president, but what would the president be doing at her toll booth?
“Yes maam, I really am the president.”
And then it hit the fan …
“Yo Obama, I thought you was gunna pay my rent, and you was gunna give me free health, and all kinds of shit, from yo’ stash – where’s my stuff at?”
“I can’t buy no gas, I can’t get my hair done, I ain’t got no money left after I pays yo taxes. We was supposed to get some Obama money – where’s it at? Where’s ma motherf**kin’ Obama money?”
“Watchu doin – taking another motherf**kin’ vacation?” “Ah can’t take no vacation … ah ain’t got no money, you be takin’ all ma money!”
“You ain’t give me nuthin’ and I voted for you, fo’ times an’ I still ain’t got no cellphone.” “Where’s ma motherf**kin’ cellphone?”
“ … Come ‘round here like some kinda fool getting’ all up in ma face and shit …”
“I ain’t lettin’ you through less you pay me … where’s yo’ stash now, fool.”
The president was blown away by her response. This was a black woman, an Obama supporter, an Obama voter, and she was chewing him out – how could this be?
“Please miss, I’m sorry, it’s not my fault. It’s those darned Republicans, they won’t let me do what I want to do. It’s not my fault. I’ve been trying, sista.”
Whoa, that did it; she was really pissed now, “Sista? Sista? Dontchu be callin’ me sista, I ain’t yo sista an you aint no brotha! You can kiss my black ass sucka! You ain’t done nuthin’! You ain’t no better than that mother**kin’ white dude Rummy, you ain’t no different!”
“… mother**kin’ fool …”
Recognizing that they’d be wise to get away from this disgruntled citizen, and fast, Landerer gave her a twenty dollar bill and said, “This’ll pay for the next pickup too” and floored it as soon as the gate lifted. The Ram pickup squealed the tires even with the Airstream behind it.
Luckily, the drivers and passengers managed to come up with $10.00 in cash for each of the other ten pickup/trailer combinations, but it still took all twelve rigs almost twenty minutes to clear the toll plaza.
The toll taker never stopped ranting at the president, mumbling the entire time she was passing the rigs through the toll plaza. They could just make out bits and pieces of her tirade about Obama, and how she wasn’t getting hers.
Oh, and she called him a “motherf**kin’ fool “a lot.
Relieved to be past another low point in what had been expected to be a restful, leisurely drive down the east coast, the president was visibly shaken. He couldn’t believe how badly he’d been treated during his vacation journey. Maybe he was wrong about his agenda and how he viewed the country’s citizens as nothing more than peons and peasants – merely there to do his bidding and pay their taxes. Maybe he was wrong … could he be wrong?
Naaah … black or white, they were all just stupid dumbass ignorant fools; after all, they elected him didn’t they? They were lucky to have him as their leader. He was still right, he was always right, he would always be right.
Finally, Obama the Magnificent smiled – it was good to be the king.
The convoy finally reached Daytona Beach a little over an hour later. While they had originally planned to tour the speedway, they were running behind and decided to skip the tour and continue to the interchange with I-4 to save time. Luckily, the transition to Interstate 4 went without incident and they were now only about 90 miles away from Orlando, their final destination. What could go wrong now?
The president gets the bird
Obama was still riding in the lead pickup, trying to emotionally recover from the ass-chewing he got from the tollbooth-lady, when traffic slowed to a crawl. Just ahead, there was a disabled eighteen wheeler being towed off the highway and traffic was slowing to get around the operation.
Obama rolled down his window to get a breath of fresh Florida air and … in flew a little gray bird.
“Get it off me, get it off me, get it away!” He turned white as a sheet (well, a kinda dirty tan-colored sheet). The little Gnatcatcher was maybe three inches long and weighing a couple of ounces – not exactly a menace to life and limb.
But Obama had a deathly fear of small birds. It stemmed from stories told in Kenya, of a spirit (Obu Jigumbee) that came in the form of a small bird that plucked your eyes out if you were bad. His aunt had told him of these legends and how they were true – she had seen it, with her own eyes, the spirit bird pecking at the eyes of a small boy who had disobeyed his parents. It scarred Obama for life. To this day, he had an unnatural fear of small birds.
Obama was in full panic mode now, flailing around and ducking to avoid the little bird. “Ahhhhhhhhhh get it away, get it away!” The bird was darting about in the pickup’s confined space trying to find a way out.
“Eeeeeeeeaahhhhhhh help me!” Phil couldn’t tell whether he was trying to hit the bird or trying to keep it away. He pulled over and, ducking to avoid the fluttering little bird and Obama’s arms at the same time. “Nooooooooo get away!”
Unfortunately, the little bird had eaten a full load of purple berries and, under the extreme stress of flying his little bird heart out, lost control of his sphincter and began dropping droppings. Here a splat, there a splat, everywhere a purple splat. “Stop stop stop.”
And to make matters worse, since our fearless leader had reflexively rolled UP the window after the bird got in, now the bird couldn’t get out – and apparently, neither could he.
The president was vainly pushing at the door trying to get out; he banged his fists on the window (forgetting that vehicles usually require pulling a handle to open a door). He was coming unglued, going completely bonkers, yelling, screaming, swinging at the poor little bird who was just flying for his little bird life to avoid Obama’s pummeling.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee get it out, get it out!” Another flying purple splat. The little bird was in constant motion except when he did a touch-and-go on the president’s head just long enough to squirt some purple coloring onto Obama’s graying hair.
“Ahhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeee, get it off, get it off!” Obama was shaking his head back and forth, slapping at the bird on his head … and missing. Another flying splat. He swatted at the bird and hit the window instead; “Arrrgggg” slapped at him again and banged his hand on the dashboard, “Owwwww.” Another dive-bombing splat.
The bird was winning. “Shoot it Phil, shoot it!”
As aggravated as Phil was, he knew he couldn’t shoot, he was afraid that he might miss and hit the bird.
Calmly, Phil rolled down the window on his side and, on his way out, the little bird swooped down and dropped one final runny purple splat right on Obama’s nose and hauled his little feathered butt out of the pickup.
As he was flying away, he could be heard chirping away, “Cheep, chirp, tweet, cheep,” which in bird language means, “Motherf**kin’ fool!”
The president wasn’t exactly covered with bird poop; the little Gnatcatcher was too small to leave anything really big. He just left dime-sized squirts of purple poop splotches here and there, with a nice tight two-inch grouping right at center-mass. Obama’s short gray hair had at least two spots of purple on top and there was a little purple poo running down both sides of the presidential nose (that wouldn’t look too good on Mt. Rushmore).
Ironically, Phil had been spared any attack from Obu Jigumbee and was poop-free. Maybe there was something to the Kenyan legend after all?
After he composed himself and surveyed the “damage,” the president glared at Landerer and said, “If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll have you water-boarded.” Trying desperately not to smile, Phil just answered, “Aye, aye, sir.”
Finally, it’s over
Responding to radio questions from the other drivers, Landerer assured the other agents that everything was ok, a bird flew in through an open window, so he stopped to get the bird out, nothing more.
Once more the presidential convoy was on the road and closing in on their final destination, Orlando.
They’d just crossed Lake Monroe and were approaching Sanford, Florida. In case you don’t remember the name, that’s where Trayvon Martin was killed (the teen who “looked like Obama”). The president flirted briefly with the idea of stopping “to pay his respects” as a photo-op, but was reminded by Phil that he may not be too popular there since he’d done nothing to help since his original statement – and these damned Floridians carried guns.
The president decided that it might be wise to keep a low profile. He was relieved that it was almost over. This was one trip that he wouldn’t soon forget.
Finally, with Orlando just minutes away, Obama began to recall the troubling events of his Stupendous, Spectacular, Sequestration Tour, wary that some recollections were painful.
From the very start, he’d been left mumbling without his teleprompter, and that night he’d been subjected to stinking cloud of fart gas around the campfire, he’d been chastised in public by Moochelle over the big-boobed woman, made to “get on the ground” like a common criminal in Florence, disrespected by a truck stop owner over a fuel bill, just missed being blown up by a predator drone and saw his wife with a toilet glued to her bum. He had been in a fight with his teleprompter – and lost, he’d been cussed out by a toll taker, and shit on by an obviously Republican bird. Thank Alinsky it was almost over.
He was ready to return to D.C. where he was worshipped (properly) as a deity. He really believed that he didn’t deserve the bad events that had occurred to him on this Godforsaken trip, he was destined for greatness, perhaps after he helped to elevate the United Nations to true world governance, he would accept becoming its president (by acclaimation). And with that, he closed his eyes and began to plot his first royal decrees.
Dear reader, in closing, we at Pesky Truth would like to direct a simple, short statement to Barack Hussein Obama:
Categories: Humor & Satire