Obama’s Frugal Vacation
Ch. 2 of 4, Obama’s march through Georgia
NOTE: This is the 2nd chapter of Obama’s frugal vacation. If you missed the first part, you can access it HERE – it lays the groundwork for this part and you should read it first.
The plan was to get up about seven to get an early start. They’d hook up and head out, meeting at eight o’clock for breakfast at a restaurant on I-95.
During his prep work for the trip, Jacque Strapp had been assured by the restaurant’s owner that although they typically did serve grits (common in the south), grits would not be included on any plate served to the president. Ever since the Flo’s Diner incident, the president decreed that grits should be classified as “assault grits” and therefore banned under the recently enacted AGB (Assault Grits Ban).
The caravan got to the Beggs ‘N Achen a little late and forty travelers took over most of the large dining room. The owner, Pete Zaparla, helped the restaurant’s wait staff distribute menus and take orders. As a group, the travelers were happy and festive, none the worse for the fart-gas onslaught of the night before.
After everyone had finished, Obama stood up to deliver a morning pep talk to the group, but he was distressed to find no teleprompter. “Where is Oz?” Oz was his pet name for his alter ego, his crutch, TOTUS (Teleprompter of the United States).
It seems that the aide responsible for TOTUS, Lucy Lasstic, had somehow forgotten to pack Oz and had been afraid to tell the president. She had even written his “ad lib” pep talk for the morning, but those printed words were useless if he couldn’t see them displayed on Oz. The absence of his teleprompter rendered the president damn-near speechless – at least in terms of anything that made sense.
Sure, he could mumble and uhhh for a few minutes, but nothing he said could be reported by the press lest he be labeled a tongue-tied buffoon.
Obama was pissed off and thought that Lucy should suffer for her screw-up. She just might accidentally strangle herself with her pantyhose or suffer a bizarre nasal spray fatality or something like that. Sooner or later, she’d pay for making him look bad.
But, trooper that he is, Obama tried to rally the group even without TOTUS.
“Uhhh, today we embark on a, uhhh, new day and, uhhh, visit two more of our 57 states, Carolina and South Georgia, duhhh, I’ll go line by line to uhhh, be sure I’m spending it all, uhhh, and we be the ones, duhhh we be waiting for uhhh, while they are clinging to their guns and Bibles, duhhh, no family making, uhhh, a ka-jillion dollars will, duhhh, see a single dime and, uhhh, at a certain point, you’ve made enough money, uhhh, rama lama ding dong duhhh, and a partridge in a pear tree.”
The room was filled with puzzled expressions, most not quite sure what he’d just said, but those who had heard his rambling before were not surprised. An ad-libbing Obama was totally tongue-tied without his teleprompter, but he’d uhhh’d his way through his shtick anyway.
And finally, he tried to close his pep talk with a little southern flair when he asked, “Y’all with me?”
And they applauded and hooted and hollered (prompted by a flashing sign that displayed “hoot,” and “holler,” so they’d know when to holler and when to hoot).
The president was pleased. His morning rally would get them off to a rousing start and create some enthusiasm. After all, that’s what a leader does.
So, now filled with Obama-inspired gusto, they loaded up and moved out, heading south down I-95.
In the first uneventful hour, they passed up a Guinness record-holding “World’s Largest Open-faced Pig Knuckle Sammich” attraction and twenty miles later, zipped right by the “Avocado Appliance Hall of Fame.” Time was short and regrettably, they had to skip some really nifty attractions if they were to keep to their schedule.
To pass the time, the riders in Pickup One (the one carrying the president) decided to play a game of “count the bumper stickers.” Thinking that they would see a lot of Obama/Biden stickers, they were disappointed to see none in the next hour.
They did, however, see this one … and fourteen more just as disparaging to the president.
He was insulted; he had no idea that so many people disliked him. The game didn’t go as he expected, so he stopped it. He blamed “that damned Boosh” for the overwhelming number of anti-Obama bumper stickers they saw. But they were, after all, in NASCAR country – full of ignorant, dumbass, rednecks, crackers and hicks. To his mind, there were no truly informed citizens here – they were wrong about everything and the bumper sticker count just confirmed it. It’s no wonder he didn’t win South Carolina – they’re just too stupid to recognize the genuine genius that he was.
The caravan made one quick stop between Lumberton and Dillon so the bladderly-challenged folks could relieve themselves. Bertha Venation was the “pee-keeper.” She had the keys to the Airstreams and she issued a key to a pee-er and collected it when the pee-er was done. She blew a whistle (loudly) when the pee break was over and it was time to mount up. She’d been a rehab matron at the King Kong Bundy Home for Obese Wrestlers and could bench press a VW – so no one gave Bertha any lip.
On the road again, everyone was just enjoying the roadside scenery when, all of a sudden, the lead pickup slammed on his brakes and screeched to a panic stop. It was all the following units could do to keep from Barney-Franking (rear-ending) each other.
Agent Brock Alee had just caught a glimpse of a white BMW sitting atop a really big pair of boobs.
The woman in white was on her back (gulp) and was obviously in distress, and he felt honor-bound to stop and render aid, assistance, help, relief, support, a hand out, a leg up, buy her a condominium, or anything else he could do for her.
When the other men saw her, they also wanted to lend a hand (or two). Even Barack was overcome with interest in the young woman’s very large uhhh, dilemma(s). In moments, there was a crowd of middle-aged men sucking in their bellies, strutting around the young woman like gamecocks prancing around in a mating dance.
She introduced herself as Marsha Mellow and said her car had overheated (it wasn’t the only thing overheated) as she was on her way to work at Hooters (where else?). As the guys played rock, paper, boobs, uhhh, scissors to see who might give her a lift; Michelle finally came over to see what was causing the commotion.
One look was all it took.
Suffice to say that when Michelle ain’t pleased, ain’t nobody pleased – and Michelle ain’t pleased.
“B A R A C K H U S S E I N O B A M A (bama, bama bama)”
echoed over the South Carolina countryside like a sonic boom. Birds scattered, car alarms went off, and little children ran crying to their mommas.
The growing damp spot in his trousers confirmed that he heard her. “Yes, Pookie?”
“Call a roadside service and get back in the truck – NOW!” “Yes, Pookie.”
It’s a good thing that our adversaries on the world stage like Iran and North Korea hadn’t seen that. They could learn a thing or two from Michelle “Pookie” Obama, about how to make Barack Obama wet himself in fear.
Under the angry glare of Michelle Obama, the men slinked back to their respective vehicles and reluctantly left Miss Mellow leaning against the BMW. She was waving, desperately trying to keep her balance and remain upright without falling over.
And who said there weren’t any mountains in South Carolina?
And though the men could have benefitted from a cold … really cold … shower, they drove on.
In less than an hour, they were approaching Florence; time to find “The Pokey Porker,” a South Carolina style slow-cooked barbeque restaurant right off of I-95 that Michelle had reluctantly accepted as a lunch stop.
Ever the smart businessman, José led the Obamas to a special table adorned with flowers for Michelle and the girls, and a crown and throne for the king president (Mr. Canusee was a bit of a smartass). He had pictures taken of himself with the “king” and first family before bringing out the entire restaurant’s staff to have group pictures taken. José basically upstaged Obama and took charge (kinda like Bibi Netanyahu does whenever he meets with Obama). Even as “king,” Obama was relegated to second fiddle (again).
The group ordered all varieties of barbeque and the “fixin’s” except for the guys. When they ordered (an image of Marsha Mellow still fresh in their memory) twenty-three hungry guys all ordered mounds of coleslaw, mounds of potato salad, mounds of pulled pork, and whatever else that came in mounds – nobody ordered flatbread, funny how that works …
The food was served quickly and gobbled down quickly. Anxious to get on the road again, the group saddled up, moved out, and headed down I-95 again – destination: Savannah, Ga.
This leg of the journey should take about three hours at their leisurely pace, barring any unforeseen situations – like, for instance, being pulled over by the local fuzz less than ten miles outside of Florence.
What … the … hell? The presidential convoy … pulled over? How could that happen?
It seems that an observant citizen leaving the Pokey Porker had seen two of the Secret Service agents securing their Sig P229 pistols before getting into their vehicles. That alarmed the citizen, who promptly called 911 and described the guys as suspicious looking and carrying concealed weapons. “They were driving pickups and pulling trailers – probably loaded with abomic bombs or bacteriologists or something.”
Apparently, the news of the president’s vacation tour had not filtered down to the local police and sheriff’s departments, so they went all Barney Fife, convinced that there was a convoy of armed terrorists pulling bomb-filled trailers down I-95 and bent on bringing murder and mayhem to South Carolina’s citizens.
The local police and sheriffs’ departments quickly set up a roadblock, stopped all twelve rigs, and converged on the caravan. The police and sheriffs advanced cautiously on the vehicles and trailers. They were armed with those demonic-looking, evil assault rifles (the real ones, not the fake ones that civilians can buy).
Through a bullhorn, the Sheriff loudly ordered all occupants to “GET OUT OF THE VEHICLES WITH YOUR HANDS UP AND GET FLAT ON THE GROUND.”
Most complied except for that skinny, big-eared, brownish guy who (without his teleprompter) was babbling about how he was the uhhh president and other crazy talk like that. He was told, in no uncertain terms, to “SHUT THE F**K UP” and “get on the ground.”
The only other belligerent was a broad-shouldered, broad-beamed black woman, dressed in expensive casual clothing and very expensive sneakers and raving “do you know who I am?” Without waiting for an answer, she whizzed a spinning back-fist by the sheriff’s jaw, just missing. She followed with a sweep to the sheriff’s leg, upending him in the process. Another officer grabbed her from behind and she left teethmarks in his forearm. It was clear that she was going to be a handful.
“Get yo @**&## hands off me, you *!@###* cracka!” She was just about to get pepper sprayed when the AC (Agent-in-Charge), Phil Landerer finally was able to show his identification and get the locals to stand down.
It had taken three burly policemen to restrain our “demure” First Lady, (and she still kneed Sgt. Rocco Gibralter in his goobers). He’ll be in testicular rehab until his balls recover from the trauma and feel safe enough to reappear and his voice drops another octave or two.
Thankfully, the state police arrived then. They were aware of the convoy and with their help; agent Landerer was finally able to convince the local gendarmes that they really did stop the president of the United States’ vacation caravan. They were extremely embarrassed. The Police Chief and the Sheriff both apologized profusely over the mishap and begged forgiveness from the First Family.
After it was over, most of the agents and aides thought that it was hilarious. They all laughed over Obama peeing himself and lying face down in the dirt and grass, sputtering about how he was the uhhh, president uhhh, dadgummit. But the main topic was how Michelle had kicked the butts of two sheriff’s deputies, leaving bite marks on one, and sent another one to Saint Genitalia’s Clinic for Testicular Trauma.
But the president and Michelle didn’t think it was funny, they were not amused and they would have their revenge.
While he was changing into dry (and unsoiled) underwear and pants, Obama was plotting the most efficient way to nuke the entire State of South Carolina, or at least the City of Florence. He might need to requisition another dozen Predators or so to repay them for their assault on his ego.
But Michelle … now that was another story.
Knowledgeable insiders knew that it was better to have Barack as your enemy than Michelle. She had Valerie Jarret, who acted as the Obama family “Consigliere” and could “arrange” to have nasty and unusual things happen to people, and do so in a way that could never tie back to the Obamas, no matter how heinous the deed might be. Before long, a plot was afoot.
Finally gathering themselves, the First Convoy continued on their journey, now way behind schedule and still over two hours from their next overnight in Savannah.
A pair of South Carolina state police cruisers accompanied the convoy all the way to the Georgia state line. They wanted to make sure that no other South Carolina LEOs attempted to apprehend “a convoy of bomb-laden terrorists driving down the Interstate.”
The next 180 miles were uneventful … until the convoy pulled into the One Night Stands campground outside of Savannah. There was already a brawl going on in the office.
The manager, Wendy Shoefitts, had tried to calm a group of irate campers. She had forced some of them to move so she could give the more desirable hookups to the president’s party, and they were pissed.
Here we see a disgruntled camper lodging her complaint on Wendy’s snout.
Lucky for her, the guys pulled the irate woman away before Wendy got her tattooed butt whupped, reeeel good. The woman, a Miss Eltow, was satisfied to have a picture taken with the First Family in trade for her prime location.
The crew finally got the trucks and trailers parked and now, it was time to think about dinner. After the fart-filled fiasco of the previous night, Obama had designated all kinds of beans as “assault beans” and they won’t be welcome around the Stupendous, Spectacular, Sequestration Tour campfire. As it was late and no one felt like actually cooking anything, they just decided to order pizza for delivery.
They asked Ms. Shoefitts about the closest pizza delivery and she responded (though she was spitting blood and spittle while trying to talk) that Dominos was not far and they had a deal to offer half price delivery on large orders. So Dominos it was.
The first time an aide called, when the order was placed, it came to thirty-six pizzas, all for the president’s traveling party, the girl hung up on him, “damn those smartass kids.” It just sounded too much like a prank to be real. He tried a second time with the same results and this time the order taker was getting pissed, she told him to call Pizza Hut.
Finally, the aide went to the campground office and got Wendy on the phone to confirm that it was a real order and it was really for the president and his party.
Since there was no more driving for the day, it was ok to have a beer or two, but the group had forgotten about the infamous “beer and pizza” farts. Those can be real butt-burners, especially when turbo-charged by pepperoni and anchovies.
While Obama’s Frugal Vacation might have been good for the country’s economic well-being, so far it has contributed untold liters of gaseous pollution to our formerly clean air.
In the interest of brevity, we’ll dispense with the blow by blow (pun intended) commentary of this evening’s gas attack and bid our caravan of heroes a nighty night and sweet dreams – they’re gonna need ’em for the next leg of Obama’s Frugal Vacation.
To be continued in Chapter Three: