Obama Spanks His Monkey Lady

In Carpentersville, Illinois, the magnolias may not exactly be made of steel but they come generously festooned with political razor wire as Linda Ramirez-Sliwinski found out. Linda is by way of being a local Village Trustee and obviously moonlights as a neighborhood busybody.

Seeing two local kids playing Tarzan in a nearby magnolia tree, the horrified Trustee, eagerly exercising her Trusteeship, bustled over to the watching parents and remonstrated. The little whippersnappers could get hurt. Worse, they could damage the tree which "is not there for them to be climbing in there like monkeys".

Just another spat with the next-doors except for one small thing. The little whippersnappers weren't Typical Rebukable Whippersnappers. They were African American Whippersnappers and therefore carried about with them secreted in their melanin count the Suffering, Humiliation, Degradation, Discrimination and Torment of Centuries which can Never Be Sufficiently Atoned For.


And so at the very moment the fateful Word "monkeys" was uttered the stars stood in their courses and the planets ceased to spin. The sun dimmed. Nature itself shriveled. Beneath the neat pavements the earth grumbled. The Word took wing and like the Angel of the Lord passed over the whole land. Freeway traffic halted. Workers laid down their tools. Planes made emergency landings on the nearest airstrips. The Stock Exchange stopped trading. Kindergarten children grew still and silent. Captains of industries canceled meetings, withdrew takeover bids, left off ogling their personal assistants. Some even phoned their wives.

A Gay Parade in San Francisco did not end in an orgy. The New York Times hired a real reporter. John Edwards remembered his wife is ill. Bill Clinton made a genuinely innocent remark to a pretty girl. Mitt Romney shot an actual varmint. Office workers in Manhattan threw an estimated 32 tons of specially blackened ticker tape from their windows. Professors on every campus across the country immediately ceased lecturing on "The Evil That Is America: The Jena Six" and announced a new course on "The Evil That Is America: The Carpentersville Monkey Woman".

Levitating in his hotel room as he relaxes between rallies, Senator Barack Obama on hearing the news sighs audibly and mutters, "Another Typical White Person. There are so many of them. So many. And I am so few." On being informed that this particular TWerP was one of his own delegates, the Senator's halo darkened ominously. "Have I not decreed," he thundered, "that those white people on whom I bestow the honor of supporting me must be thoroughly vetted. How can I, I, I say I bring unity to this troubled fragmented sinful land if every one is not of the exact same opinion as I."

"How wise. How true," stuttered his aide. "There's just one problem. This woman is a Latina."

The Senator smiles a cold yet strangely inspirational smile. "Have I not said that any one who is not of my Father's people is of my Mother's people," he says with quiet forebearance. "She is therefore virtually a Typical White Person in everything but the Wetness of her Back which is," he continues, waving an airy palm, "completely irrelevant in this situation."

"Yes, of course," gulps the aide, "and what do you wish to do with this Typical Virtual White Person who has dared transgress?"

Michelle, Revered Consort of the Chosen One, her eyes still filled with the suffering she endured in the cracker hellhole of Princeton, looks up from her copy of Jeremiah Wright's Sermons For Your Children vol. 3: God Damn America and purses her lips.

"Grandmother her," she says.

Obama rises and floats over to his wife, a beatific smile rendering his countenance even more radiant.

"Of course, you're right again, My Sacred Beloved," he murmurs. As he bends down to kiss her chastely on the cheek, the rays of light emanating from about his head cause her to blink rapidly. She suppresses a sigh. A small price to pay, after all.

"Grandmother her?" asks the aide, seeking confirmation.

"Yes," says the Senator, straightening up to his full 12 feet. "Let it be done. Throw her under the bus forthwith."

"It shall be done, Oh Bama," says the aide and scuttles away.

Back in Carpentersville, Illinois, a frustrated Linda Ramirez-Sliwinski turns on her heels and marches back to her house, muttering ferociously to herself about irresponsible parents and spoilt kids. Suddenly with a wail of sirens and the screech of rubber on asphalt she is surrounded by a dozen or more black SUVs from which jump a small army of agents in full body armour with the designations FBI, DEA, ATF, MAD, AS, HELL printed on their jackets. Each and every one of them is a veteran of Ruby Ridge and Waco and so highly skilled in the use of minimum force and the necessity of allowing crass political considerations to ignore common sense and ride roughshod over a citizen's rights.

From the forest of assault weapons aimed at her the flabbergasted Village Trustee sees a tall black man approach. He looks very like the guy who played President Palmer in 24, she thinks.

"Linda Ramirez-Sliwinski," 'President Palmer' intones, "I'm arresting you on charges of being a suspected Typical White Person (Special Designation -Virtual) in violation of Penal Code 666 of the Federal GUMPI Statutes."

"Grumpy?" asks an increasingly alarmed Ms Ramirez-Sliwinski before the breath is driven out of her body as three burly agents slam her to the ground and cuff her..

"G-U-M-P-I," responds 'Palmer' brusquely. "Guilty Until - Maybe - Proven Innocent." Turning to the other agents he barks, "Take her away."

In a flash she's bundled into one of the vehicles and they speed off, sirens whaa-whaaing into the distance.

In his Philadelphia hotel room Barack Obama is doing press ups on the ceiling. "Seven hundred and one," he pants, "seven hundred and two..." The phone rings.

"I'll get it, dear," cries Michelle.

"Seven hundred and three, seven hundred and four, seven hundred and five..." The drops of sweat falling from the Senator's brow form little shining silver pearls on the carpet below before they dissolve and fill the room with the delicate fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley.

In the lead SUV 'President Palmer' speaks softly into his cell phone. "We got her. Everything went like clockwork."

"Good. Good," Michelle murmurs. "The neighbors told me she was weakening. Any day now they said."

"They had her dead to rights. Typical Virtual White Person."

"You said it, bro."

"I dunno, Michelle. One at a time. We'll be at this till the White Sox win the World Series."

"No worries, DooShawen. Remember what the coach told you in college, you win the game one basket at a time."

"Yeah. He was a nice old guy. I feel kinda bad about getting him fired. When he said you'll never succeed without doing the spade work, I don't think he meant any...."

"A Typical White Person. Say it. A Typical White Person."

"A Typical White Person. A Typical White Person. Yeah, you're right."

"You know I am," coos Michelle and hangs up. Obama wafts down beside her, mopping his shining brow with a damasked silk hankerchief, a gift from John Edwards.

"Was that DooShawen?" he inquires. "How'd it go?"

Michelle grins. "Like clockwork." She frowns suddenly. "I know you said for every Typical White Person that's destroyed another ten thousand are scared into silence, but still, as DooShawen was just saying, it seems awful slow."

Obama pauses and looks at her, his dark visionary eyes twinkling. "It's worked a treat so far, hasn't it?"

"That it has, lover, that it has," Michelle agrees and they both burst into uncontrollable giggles.

Standing outside the hotel room door, Patrick Magillacuddy and Sven Olafsson, the two Secret Service agents on duty, look at each other and smile indulgently. It sure is a pleasure to guard such a nice unassuming couple.