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A Texas redneck in President Obama's court


It's odd how at various times throughout history an otherwise nondescript and inconsequential person has found themselves in a position to influence the world stage.  I'll spare you the timeless examples that immediately come to mind and dive right into a remarkable turn of events in which your humble Baron was recently entwined.

About a month ago I was mindlessly clicking my way through page after page of midget bondage porn when the phone rang.  Normally under those circumstances I'd ignore the call and remain focused on the task at hand, IYKWIMAITYD, but from the corner of my eye I noticed the caller ID showing a number from the 202 area code.  The only thing I like better than midget porn is screwing with political pollsters, so I picked up the phone.

"Son of a bitch," I bellowed.  "It never ends, every single time I'm dragging a strangled hooker down to the basement someone calls.  Hello, who the hell is this?"

"Um, excuse me, is this [redacted]?"

"Maybe, who is this is?"

"I'm calling from the White House.  We understand you post under the pseudonym 'Baron Von Ottomatic' on the 65th ranked Conservative blog, Wizbang," the man at the other end of the line became audibly tense, "President Obama instructed us to contact you because he would like to speak with you about your opinions."

"Seriously, who is this?"

"Please, would you mind holding for a few minutes," he asked, "the next voice you hear will be the President of the United States."

As a sign of respect for the office of the presidency I struggled to pull on a nearby pair of boxers while strains of Hail to the Chief came across the phone.  My mind raced.  Which one of my friends knew enough about my political postings to tip off some local radio station to prank me?  Is there actually a radio station out there so devoid of programming content to undertake such an esoteric stunt?  Has Ashton Kutcher sunk this low?

Suddenly a vaguely recognizable baritone voice snapped me from my daydreams, "Is this [redacted]?"

"You got him."

"[Retacted], President Barack Obama.  I've been following your sporadic work on Wizbang for a while and we need to talk."

"I'm flattered," I stammered, "but a little surprised that the most powerful man on Earth would be bothered to read the rantings of some anonymous moron.  Listen, it's all in good fun. I certainly didn't intend to inflame your ire in a personal, about-to-be-audited-back-to-the-Stone-Ages-by-the-IRS kind of way."

"No, no, it's not like that at all," he chuckled nervously.  "[Redacted], I'm calling you because...," his words became labored and he sighed heavily, "I need your help."

"Mr. President, I say this with all due respect, but would you mind referring to me as 'Your Baroness' rather than my Christian name?"

"Isn't 'Baroness' a feminine title?"

"I see your Austrian has improved since 2008, but do you want my help or don't you?"

"Yes, Your Baroness," he replied meekly, then said his staff would contact me to make arrangements to fly to DC for a face-to-face meeting.  The call disconnected and I was left to puzzle over what just transpired.  What could Barack Obama possibly have in mind for a man who regularly calls him a senseless dunderpate and an improvident lackwit?  This had to be a goof.

Skepticism turned to paranoia the next morning when, sure enough, a staffer called to coordinate the travel itinerary.  I couldn't shake the vision of getting the Ron Brown treatment.  Going on Air Force One seemed like pretty good insurance against an unfortunate "accident" but I was told that was absolutely out of the question.  After some heated back-and-forth we compromised on a re-commissioned SR-71 Blackbird, a new pair of Red Wing Pecos boots, 25,000 rounds of 5.56 ammo diverted from a secret shipment to the Libyan rebels, and 30 minutes alone with a New York Times crossword puzzle in the White House bathroom of my choice...

Before I knew it, a sharp rap on the door let me know the 30 minutes were up.  This would have been disheartening enough without the indignity of toilet paper made from recycled materials.  It might as well have been utility grade particle board.  Obama's prickly persona suddenly made a lot of sense.  Adding insult to injury, the toilet's feeble, low capacity flush was no match for the half-plus roll of paper I'd used.  Discretion, valor and all, I beat a hasty exit almost into the arms of the Secret Service agent standing outside.

"Geez, what'd you skin a deer in there?"

"Perhaps, but we'll let the next guy worry about that.  Which way to the Oval Office?"

"You won't be meeting the President in the Oval Office," he explained as we walked down a luxurious hallway adorned with portraits of former Democratic Presidents, "you will be meeting him in an adjacent conference room where we'll be monitoring your every move and recording the conversation.  The President's staff will be listening in and taking notes, but you won't be interrupted or distracted by their concurrent discussions."

"Pretty much like the Dalai Lama," I quipped.  "I can live with that, I guess."

"Eh, it's better than what Cameron and Netanyahu got."

After settling into a pretty nice leather chair at the conference table I asked for and received a chilled can of Coke and a glass of ice.  The agent retired to the hallway and I was left alone to contemplate what was about to happen.  Despite the President's reassurance over the phone I was gripped by a sword-of-Damocles sense of doom.  Just to be safe, I decided to never rest my wrists on the arms of the chair long enough for any hidden restraints to snap shut and leave me helplessly trapped.

At that moment a second door opened and the POTUS himself confidently strode into the room.  He approached the opposite side of the table and extended his hand, "Good afternoon, [redacted], thanks for coming.  Please, don't get up."

"Do you see me standing?" I asked as I reached out to shake his hand, "And please, call me Your Baroness."

"Really?  You're going to make me refer to you as 'Your Baroness'?"

"Nah, I'm just messing with you.  How about you just call me Baron, is that cool?"

"Fair enough, Baron, although I've got to say this is probably the first time a President has sat across a table in the White House from a man dressed in dirty overalls.  What is that?  Engine grease?"

"Pig shit, probably, and I'm pretty sure Junior Samples met Richard Nixon here in 1973."

"Oh, so you're a NASCAR fan are you," he asked while flashing his trademark smile.

"Well, yeah, but...," I responded as I leaned back in the chair and finally took a good look at him.  In person he looked so gaunt.  His immaculately tailored suit just hung off his body like he was made of matchsticks.  He looked a little like a Seventies-era David Byrne.  I also detected an unmistakable whiff of Grecian formula and nicotine.  I took that as my cue, "...say, can we smoke in here?"

"Good God, no.  Michelle would kill us both.  But we can step outside anytime, in fact, let's go have a smoke now."

"I can wait.  You can't really smoke in a meth lab when things are cooking so I'm used to...well, maybe we'll just go later, okay?"

"Yeah, damn, that's fine."  He shifted in his seat and looked me in the eyes, "Baron, I assume you're wondering why I brought you here today."

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't completely baffled," I replied while quickly jerking my hands off the arms of the chair.  The agent outside the door burst in and asked if everything was alright.  I told him my wrist restraint concerns and was told not to worry, "Dick Cheney took the restraint chairs with him to an 'undisclosed location' before Obama's inauguration."  Now, at last, I could be fully at ease.

"Anyway, Baron," he continued, "I've got my reelection campaign coming up sooner rather than later and I'm asking for your help.  We're looking to recapture the magic of 2008, and based on your Wizbang posts, I think you're just the guy to help."

"Okay, right off the bat, Barack, it's only fair to tell you that I don't want you to be re-elected.  I mean, I really REALLY don't want it to happen.  Beyond that, I don't like you on any level whatsoever.  I find you dimwitted, condescending, and almost certain to choose a course of action contrary to what I would want the President to do.  Your only redeeming quality is a lust for golf.  And that's only a plus because every golf game is five hours you aren't ass-raping the treasury or our allies abroad."

"Baron, that's great stuff.  None of the people I've surrounded myself with will give me that kind of honest feedback.  It's all 'Great idea, boss!'  What I need is a contrary voice.  Someone not afraid to tell me when I'm wrong..."

"Look, I told you, I don't want to help you."

"...Please, hear me out," he pleaded.  "Don't think of it as helping me.  Think of it as helping your country."

"So you're saying want me to ignore every single political instinct in my body.  Disregard my rudimentary knowledge of economics to help you steer the ship of state even faster towards ruin.  That I should just lie back and think of England?"

"Exactly, America and England had been chummy for far too long before I became President.  Now things are better.  So I'm asking you to step back from your long-held prejudices to make America a better place too.  I don't like the fact being President of the United States is harder than being Premier of China, but I do what I can to make the best of the untenable situation I've been dealt."

"Wow, unfuckingbelievable."

"Sounds like someone's fallen victim to my vaunted rhetorical skills.  Let's go have that smoke now."

We stood outside on a balcony while Obama nervously chain-smoked down three Kools in the space of about fifteen minutes.  He rapidly shifted the conversation from topic to topic - the NCAA basketball tournament, the upcoming baseball season, the Masters - all the while looking over one shoulder, then the other, almost compulsively.  "If Michelle catches me smoking out here I'm dead."  Not being re-elected clearly wasn't his biggest fear.

Returning to the conference room he once again turned his attention to the 2012 campaign.  "Baron, I'm afraid we're losing the independent voters who helped elect America's historic first black president.  We need to find a way to reconnect with the common man.  Based on your posts, you're about as common as they come.  What can we do to win your vote?"

"Common?  Common is blockquoted text, a link to another site, and a 'read the rest.'  I take the good time to compose original content, flogging a bit way past the time it's no longer funny.  And is that the Royal 'We?'  Because I've already told you twice..."

"Whatever.  Listen, you help me with this and I'll make sure the authorities never start snooping around the crawlspace under your mobile home.  You don't and..."

"Mr. President, you drive a hard bargain.  Okay, here's the deal - there's nothing you can do to win my vote.  It's like Charles Nelson Reilly asking me what he could do for us to live together in holy matrimony.  It could never happen because it involves a fundamental transformation into something he could never be - female.  And a former Olympic gymnast.  Or heir to the throne of Monaco."

"I'm not following you, Baron.  Regardless of what you've heard, I'm not gay."

"Okay, that's awkward and completely not the point.  The point is that you are the furthest left-wing president in America's history.  We are, at worst, a center-right country.  Once you get beyond your base - blacks and Latinos, white urban liberals, muddleheaded college students, Unionistas - you have little appeal to the rest of America.  To win my vote you would have to be something you're not - a fiscal conservative."

Obama's brow furrowed as he tried to assimilate my counsel.  What seemed like conventional wisdom to me struck him like a ton of bricks.  Muffled shouts emanated from the two-way mirror wall to my right.

Finally he spoke, "For the sake of argument, let's agree that what you're saying about me is true.  I'm still the same guy who captured the nation's heart in 2008.  What is it about voters that changed since then?"

"Ah, the old 'It's not me, it's you' excuse.  Well played."  His puzzled expression turned to annoyance but I cut him off before he could speak, "Listen, Barack, in 2008 you were an unknown commodity to most people.  I wasn't fooled, but plenty of people were.  You brought up notion of being a blank slate upon which people could project their own vision of Barack Obama.  Today you are a known commodity.  The chameleon act from 2008 can't work again.  You know the old adage about fooling all the people all the time?"

"Of course, TJ Barnum."

"Riiigghhtt.  Either way, after two years in the most visible of all jobs on Earth the moderate, post-partisan façade of 2008 has been peeled away to reveal the true, thin-skinned, inflexible liberal you've always been."

Obama snapped upright in his chair, "So, Baron, what you're saying is that we need to come up with a new façade!"

"No, what I'm saying is that it will be impossible to paper over your record again."

He slumped back into the chair and sighed loudly.  I declined to take another smoke break and he started pacing about the room.  After a few laps around the table, he looked back towards me.

"Well then what can I do?"

"Frankly, Barack, there's no way you can run from who you are and what you've done.  Remember back in 2008 when you blamed every problem under the sun on George Bush?"

"Baron, don't get me started on Bush and the Republicans!  It's their failed policies that got us into this mess to begin with.  They drove the car into a ditch and now they want the keys back?  Why would the voters give them back the keys?"

"Two reasons.  First, now you and the Democrats in Congress are the ones in charge.  You've tripled the annual deficit, gas and food prices are rising, unemployment is at a thirty year high, and you're passively reacting to a rapidly deteriorating situation in the Middle East.  It's your policies that will be blamed.  If voters believe Republicans drove the car into a ditch, they've now had two years to watch you sit there matting the gas pedal until the engine blew."

"People just don't understand how hard it is being President.  There's so much you can't control."

"True enough, but that's a very different song than you were singing back in 2008.  Which brings us to the second point - the bills you and the Democrats have passed are making what was a bad situation worse.  You abdicated leadership on spending and health care to Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid.  They crammed through the most liberal possible solutions to what Americans perceived as non-problems.  Obamacare is an albatross you can't chase away."

I almost felt sorry for him.  He was slumped forward, rubbing his temples and staring down at the table.  Sure he's a schmuck.  But he is still the President.  Seeing the most powerful man on the planet so thoroughly demoralized was actually a little painful.

After a couple of minutes Obama broke what had been an uncomfortable silence, "So you're telling me it's hopeless.  I'm doomed to be a one-term President."

"Barack, once again, I'd be lying if I said I didn't hope that was the case.  But never underestimate the capacity for Republicans to nominate a Bozo of their own.  Does the name Bob Dole ring a bell?  John McCain?  Christine O'Donnell?  [email protected]%&ing Mike Huckabee is leading some polls.  The mind reels."

"So it's not completely hopeless.  What would you do if you were me, Baron?"

"It seems to me your popularity is highest when you're the least visible.  You can't go back to being a blank slate, but you could try being the invisible man.  Just play a supporting role in campaign commercials, only a cameo if possible.  Keep campaign rallies to a minimum.  Don't participate in any debates.  Ten, fifteen minutes tops for the convention speech.  Just pretend Michelle's on the warpath and go into hiding.  Head for the links."

At that his mood improved noticeably, "You know, Baron, I actually did intend to see you suffer an unfortunate "accident" on the way home.  Not now, though.  We may actually be able to make this work.  Thanks for everything."

"I hope you're wrong about the re-election thing working out.  And before you thank me you better have the maintenance staff check the Imperial Bathroom down the hall, the water was rising like the mighty Mississippi when I..."

Suddenly an otherworldly scream rose to a crescendo and wafted down the hall into the conference room.  Too late.  Lady O had slipped and fallen in that horrible mess I'd left in the bathroom.  The President hurriedly pressed his half-smoked pack of Kools into my hand and hustled me out the side entrance.  Less than an hour later the Blackbird touched down in Dallas and soon enough I was back home stirring the sour mash in my radiator still.

Was it a dream?  Will Republicans make it easy for Obama by nominating a buffoon?  Did I really waste this much time flogging a lame gag?

The answers to those questions are 1) Who can say what's real and what's not  2) Probably and 3) Obviously.


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Comments (9)

64th ranked conservative bl... (Below threshold)
Woop:

64th ranked conservative blog?

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha, try 364th

My bad, FIFY.... (Below threshold)
Baron Von Ottomatic Author Profile Page:

My bad, FIFY.

"A Texas redneck in Pres... (Below threshold)

"A Texas redneck in President Obama's court"
A touch of Twain! But never the Twain shall tweet!

Good stuff!... (Below threshold)
Saterp:

Good stuff!

this was AWESOME!! you're a... (Below threshold)

this was AWESOME!! you're a great story-teller and a very good writer! rarely does a political blogger make me laugh out loud. nicely done.

LMAOROTFF!To parap... (Below threshold)
GarandFan:

LMAOROTFF!

To paraphrase FDR, 'The only thing we have to fear is, who the Republicans nominate...."

In the mean time, for the first time, the sitting president has to start his re-election campaign early.

He starts his campaign earl... (Below threshold)

He starts his campaign early to try to suck the donors dry before Hillary gets to them.

Good read on a Sunday. And,... (Below threshold)
iwogisdead:

Good read on a Sunday. And, to boot, Woops-a-daisy gets a royal-bitch-slap-down kick-me-to-curb.

Plus, she probably doesn't even realize what happened to her.

Here's hoping she'll go away and never come back. Cheers!!

Implying that Woop is a wom... (Below threshold)
hyperbolist:

Implying that Woop is a woman might seem funny and insulting to you, iwog, but it just shows that you hate women, think poorly of them, and are stupid.

This was good for a lol, Baron. Post more often.




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Editors: Jay Tea, Lorie Byrd, Kim Priestap, DJ Drummond, Michael Laprarie, Baron Von Ottomatic, Shawn Mallow, Rick, Dan Karipides, Michael Avitablile, Charlie Quidnunc, Steve Schippert

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