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The exit interview with you-know-who
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Over the sound of the vacuum cleaner, I managed to hear a “rap!rap!rap!” on the front door. I turned off the Hoover and went over to the door, sliding up the cover on the little speakeasy-type window.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” I said, “What now?”

Obama, who’d had his back to the door, turned around and put a finger to his lips.

“Shhh! Keep it down, woman! Let me in,” he said, trying to get the door handle to unlock.

“I know you think you’re the second coming, but only I have the power to unlock the door. Whaddya want?”

“Come on, open up! I snuck over here and don’t want anyone to see me!”

I opened the door and let him in.

He walked in and took a seat in the recliner.

I handed him the remote and said, “You can watch TV while I finish cleaning up, unless you’d rather vacuum or do the dishes.”

“Naw, you go on with what you’re doing ... I’ll be fine till you’re finished. Got anything to drink?”

“Root beer, Coke, or coffee.”

“I’ll take a Coke. With ice. Crushed.”

“You want crushed ice, you’ll have to do it yourself,” I replied, heading to the kitchen. “Hammer’s in the second drawer under the toaster!”

 “That’s OK, regular ice will do!” he hollered over the din of the TV.

I heard the familiar voice of Judge Judy and O said, “Why do you watch her? She’s so mean!”

“Why did you hire Holder? He’s an idiot,” I said, grinning and bowing as I handed him his drink.

“Touche. Mind if I change the channel?” he asked, aiming the remote at the cable box.

“Nope. I do it all the time when you’re on,” I responded, laughing.

“Ha ha. Very funny. Any pre-season football on?”

“Not till Saturday. Turn that thing off anyway, and tell me why you’re here.”

“I will in a minute,” he said, taking a swig of Coke, “got any lemon to put in this?”

“Yes I do, but it will cost you. A buck a slice. I’m only letting you have the Coke for free because you get one gratis and that’s it. Still want the lemon?”

He looked at his glass for a minute and said, “Naw, that’s all right. Got any cookies?”

I sat there giving him a dull stare for a minute and said, “Yeah. I’ve got cookies. Fifty cents each, and that’s a bargain.”

“Who made ’em, you or Keebler?”

“Me. Keebler is crap.”

“OK. I’ll take two.”

He lifted up a butt cheek and pulled out his wallet.

“Oh ... uh … I don’t have any money. Can I owe you?”

“No. Why don’t you go next door and ask the kid if you can borrow a dollar? He’s nicer than I am.”

He heaved a big sigh.

“Naw, that’s fine. I don’t need the cookies anyway. My cholesterol will go up and I’ll get yelled at by my doctor again.”

He was moping like a kid.

“OK. Now that we’re done with that, turn off the television and tell me what you’re doing here. You should be hangin’ with your cronies down in LaLa land. What are you doing up here in our little burg?”

“Well, I was actually coming to find out if there was a snowball’s chance in hell that middle America will vote for me again.”

I laughed. Loudly.

“Really? What do you care about middle America?  You’re talking middle-class America, right? ’Cause you’re all about waging this non-existent class war, isn’t that right?”

He got on the defensive and said, “Yeah, but it wasn’t my idea!”

“Sure, sure, you’re just the puppet. Everyone else is pulling the strings...”.

“Why are you so mean to me today?”

“Wah. I’m not being mean, you big baby. Come over here and look out the window. Let me show you something.”

He got up and stood in front of the window that looks out onto the street.

Standing next to him, I turned the blinds so that we could see out without being noticed.

I pointed to the houses across the street.

“Small business, small business, small business, small business,” I said, and then hooked my thumb to the right and said, “Next door, small business. Next door over there” hooking my thumb to the left, “church. A real church. Not some made-up church where the preacher constantly defames America. Church next door has bells that peal every Sunday morning at 9:20  and then again at 9:30. It’s nice. You oughtta check it out sometime. But in answer to your question about middle class America voting for you again, it’s iffy. I doubt you’d get much of a favorable response in this neighborhood because 90 percent of the folks own small businesses. And of course, I doubt that anyone will forget your ‘you didn’t build that’ statement, now that the opposing party has latched on to it for their campaign slogan. And the folks that you surround yourself with aren’t doing much to shine a favorable light in your direction, either. Biden, Pelosi, Reid, Jarrett, Axelrod, Holder ... come on, man! I thought you went to Harvard? Where’s that sharp intellect of yours? You guys don’t give a rat’s behind about the middle class. Never have, never will. That’s why you are gonna have one heck of a fight on your hands. Never mind all the talk you’re spouting about cutting the defense budget. Oh lawsy. Not a good thing.  You start that nonsense and ask yourself how the veterans will feel, voting for you. I can tell you right now. VFW. Very Few Will.”

“You sound like Judge Judy,” he said, pouting.

“Good. You need a little wake up call. And you also need to rewrite that resume of yours. I have a feeling you may be out of a job soon. Then you may find out what it really feels like to have to stand in the queue at the unemployment office. You can then officially call yourself ‘one of the 99.’ Just wear a disguise, you’ll be safer.”

“I haven’t worked a real job for a long time. What do you suppose I should do when the time comes?”

“Go to Egypt. They’re looking for a new president.”

“Naw. It’s too hot over there. Dusty, too.”

“You’d better start thinking about your future, dude. Your fake friends in Hollywood won’t know who you are if you don’t win the election. You can kiss Happytown goodbye!”

He rolled his lips around for a minute and said, “Well, I gotta go. I’m supposed to meet with whatsername this afternoon. I’ll get in trouble if I’m late.”


He nodded.

“Good luck with that.  Hang on a sec,” I said, going to the kitchen. “Take these, courtesy of middle-class America.”

I handed him a couple of cookies in a ziplock.

“See ya around,” I said, opening the door for him to leave. I couldn’t resist, so I gave him a boot in the bottom with my foot.

He whirled around and gave me shocked look.

“Get used to it,” I said, “it’s gonna feel a lot worse come November.”