Sunday, July 22, 2012



Because a few years back I was a tireless worker and contributor to Barack Obama's campaign, I guess, lately I've been receiving letters from Michelle suggesting that I send in five bucks so that I might, just possibly, there's an infinitesimally small chance to, perhaps be invited to have dinner with Barack and Michelle. Along with countless “real” donors, I suppose.
Don't get me wrong. This not going to be one of those letters where I complain about how disappointed I am in Mr. Obama's presidency. Although I am. A lot. Starting with when he didn't just leave the State of the Union podium and deck Joe Wilson from South Carolina for calling him a liar.
I think this would have sent a message to the Republicans that they've been needing to hear for some time, and that things would have gone much more smoothly legislation-wise, had that occurred. But that's just me.

Nope. This is not going to be one of those letters, although it almost turned into one in the paragraph above. This letter is about how I feel being asked to participate in a lottery, the prize of which is being invited to have my picture taken shaking Barack's hand and to have a meal at the same time he does, only about twenty tables away. “We'll even pay your airfare!” Michelle says.

I'd rather they use the airfare they've set aside for this pony show and use it to get re-elected. 
For that matter, I'd rather have a bass boat.  Obviously, they already know they've got my vote.
Whose chowder-headed Ivy League idea was this, anyway, Michelle? Have you and Barack gotten so out of touch with your base and with where you come from that you can't see what a slap in the face this offer is to me? You should have used that left hook on Joe Wilson. Hey, there may not be many left in the proletariat, but here's one over here. A very non-worshipful one. One of the public you rich people like to call “folks”. I mean, you're offering me a prize that I don't want, and I'd be ashamed of any Democrat who did want it.  Dinner with the President, indeed.

Like you won't forget my name by next day. “Who was that funny little man who won the Lottery, Darling? You know, the one from Tennessee? I'm sure somebody on the staff will send him the robo-signed photo of you shaking hands with him.”

Here's my five dollars. No, Thank You on the Dinner.

No comments:

Post a Comment