There was a time, not long ago, when my faith was shaken. I became concerned that there would never be a factually accurate resolution to the “birth certificate” brouhaha. Obviously, I am a skeptic and I really worry that Obama will ride off into the sunset having fooled American citizens. The few real facts that we know, coupled with Obama’s absolute refusal to release personal documents that the American public has a right to see, requires me to be skeptical. True, there may not be a legal requirement to show his records, but there certainly is a moral one on Obama’s part. “The most transparent administration ever,” my arse.

But over the past several days, it is beginning to look like the issue isn’t going to die a quiet death. There is major “buzz” across the Internet and some TV news programs have recognized that the issue does exist. Even the obsolete media (formally known as “newspapers” and “magazines”) are at least mentioning it. The conservative talk shows are banging the drum relentlessly and the “Where’s the Birth Certificate” movement is building momentum.

My perception was that the references to Obama’s BC issue were more numerous in recent days.

To quantify the level of exposure being enjoyed by the BC issue, I decided to do an informal survey of websites to see if my perception was accurate, so here’s what I did:

I visited Fox, CBS, MSNBC, and ABC among the “mainstream” news sites. I also visited Internet political sites, including: Hot Air, Drudge, RealClearPolitics (RCP), Newsmax, Politico, Breitbart, and Michelle Malkin. I also checked on the lefty sites Huffington Post and DailyKos.

I purposely excluded WorldNetDaily since they are the prime mover of the issue and the numerous articles there would skew the results.

I found 26 articles that had a reference to the birth certificate issue in the title. That was my only criteria for counting a “hit.” I only counted items referenced on the main (home) page of the site and didn’t click down into any of the articles looking for additional references.

Only three sites contained no reference to the issue, they were: Michelle Malkins, RCP, and MSNBC. The sites with the most articles were Drudge, Breitbart, and Huffington Post.

While it is undeniable that my survey was informal and unscientific, it does show that there is interest in the issue. At least it establishes a baseline against which we can measure an increase or decrease in exposure in the coming weeks. Wish I’d done this months ago.

There is little reason to include television or radio references. It is too time-consuming to test the network TV news sites and I know what I hear from Rush, Hannity, Levin, Davis, Ingraham, etc. on talk radio.

Obama had best consider the old political adage: “It’s not the crime, it’s the cover-up” that brings the most grief to a politician.

The plot thickens.

Here’s an update from the HonoluluAdvertiser.com as of Monday the 27^th:

Hawai’i's Health Department confirmed yesterday that it has President Obama's original Aug. 4, 1961, birth certificate in storage, but the announcement is unlikely to satisfy conspiracy theorists who insist Obama was born in Kenya. "We don't destroy vital records," Health Department spokeswoman Janice Okubo said. "That's our whole job, to maintain and retain vital records."

The Health Department's director reiterated yesterday that she has seen Obama's birth records.

 "I, Dr. Chiyome Fukino, director of the Hawai'i State Department of Health, have seen the original vital records maintained on file by the Hawai'i State Department of Health verifying Barack Hussein Obama was born in Hawai'i and is a natural-born American citizen," Fukino said in a statement. "I have nothing further to add to this statement or my original statement issued in October 2008, over eight months ago."

This was a more definite statement than the one Dr. Fukino made in October. This time, she states that she has seen the birth certificate and it verifies that Obama was born in Hawai’i. Previously, she had only said that she had seen his “original” birth certificate – with no mention of its origin – or his.

While the doctor’s statement does take some wind from our (birthers) sail, color me unconvinced. I can’t get past the fact that Obama is still using teams of attorneys to prevent the public from seeing his background records – why? To paraphrase, there’s a “skeleton in the woodpile” somewhere.

What if you were selling time-share properties, genuine 24-karat gold-clad replica coins, a gizmo to increase gas mileage, or diet plans guaranteed to make fat turn to muscle? Say that your revenue was disappointing and you needed to increase sales. But direct mail, TV spots and in-store demonstrations haven’t done the job - the results have been disappointing.

So you’re pondering your options while walking to your car, and a seedy looking guy whispers from the shadows, “Pssst, over here, pal. I’ve got what you need.”

“And how do you know what I need?”

“I’m psychic, I know these things. You need a new audience, a special audience.”

“And you can help me find this new audience?

“I can. Suppose I told you that there is a vast pool of citizens, millions in fact, who will accept without question whatever they’re told. You say ‘jump,’ they ask ‘how high.’ They’ll buy whatever you’re selling and thank you for hoodwinking them. They will remain loyal no matter what you do or say."   

“There’s no such thing … that would be the Holy Grail to a marketer.”

“There are such people; they’re called the Obama-ites ... the followers of our beloved president, B. Hussein Obama.”

"They'll believe anything he says. Faced with a choice between cold, hard facts and some inane promise from Obama, they’ll believe him every time. They ignore the changes in his positions on fifteen or twenty major issues – no matter. He avoided anything remotely Muslim during the campaign (even his middle name), now he embraces his Muslim brothers and quotes from the Quran. Put plainly, he’s a snake-oil salesman and the Obama-ites have faith that his elixir will cure everything from jock itch to constipation. They're lapping it up as if it was manna from heaven.”

We were tipped to the phenomena when one of our crack journalists watched an old episode of Seinfeld - the one where Kramer was found to be filled with the “Kavorka,” (the lure of the animal) by the Latvian Orthodox church.

We decided to see if such a thing existed. After sessions with Latvian Orthodox church officials and an intensive scientific investigation, our conclusion is that Obama is indeed under the spell of a "vorka." The church is convinced that Obama is filled with the O’vorka vorka (the lure of the half-black, metrosexual).

When you’re filled with the O’vorka, you can say anything and do anything, no matter how outrageous, and your audience will worship you. If someone challenges you or disagrees, your followers will defend you with cries of "racist." And they’ll stand there meekly while you snatch the shirt from their back and say, “Thank you sir, you may have my Jockey shorts too.”

There is a messianic quality that surrounds Obama's O’vorka – the ability to convince his audience that he is talking only to them and he means every word. Barry Obama could put on a blue oxford shirt, grow a dense black beard and bellow “Billy Mays here!” and sell anything “as seen on TV” even better than the guru of pitchmen himself. B. Hussein Obama is indeed an uber-pitchman.

But where did the O'vorka come from? How did he get it?

And perhaps more importantly, what can we do about it?

Pesky Truth is working with a highly-respected lab to develop a gel which, when rubbed on one’s body, will generate a Obama-like ability to speak with a forked tongue, yet be entirely believable. So far, the gel works, but it has the unfortunate side effect of enlarging the ears, turning the skin brown, and smelling like excrement.  

In our unending quest for the truth, our intrepid investigators have unearthed some little known facts about the Obama administration and the democrat congressional leadership. These little-known facts have been checked, re-checked, and double-dog checked and found to be the gospel truth, so help us Rush Limbaugh.

This is the first portion of our investigation, much more to come.

Obama’s early policies

Obama is now offering a Tax Recovery Stipend as a signing bonus to any democrat appointee to his administration. It is intended to cover any outstanding unpaid taxes, interest, and penalties. The payment should dramatically expand the pool of available talent now that being a tax scofflaw is no longer an impediment to public service.

The president has taken a firm stance on the gun issue. He stated yesterday that “I’m not against guns; I know that guns aren’t evil.” But it was later learned that that statement was incomplete – he had continued by saying that he was dead set against triggers. “Triggers are evil, dastardly things that cause injury and death to thousands of our citizens. I am therefore issuing an executive order banning triggers.”

Obama apologized for a misunderstanding regarding his use of the term “earmarks.” When he railed against earmarks, he was referring to the scratches sometimes left on body parts by earrings. Nine thousand of those would be bad, the other kind, not so bad.

Obama bristled at the characterization of his first two months as “wham bam, thank you ma’am” politics. Taxpayers are distraught, feeling that he took advantage of us. He sweet-talked us, he courted us, he said all the right things, and when he got what wanted, he ignored us. And he got what he was after without so much as a dinner and a movie (at least Gordon Brown got dinner and some movies and Obama hasn’t even screwed him ... yet).

Obama’s entire vocabulary when a teleprompter is unavailable

• Uh
• Uh, uh
• Uh, uh, uh
• Ah
• Ah, ah
• Ah, ah, ah
• Uh, ah, uh, ah, uh, ah … uhhhhhh ……… (smokes a cigarette)
• Hey man, don’t bogart that doobie
• Rama lama ding dong
• A priest, a minister, and a rabbi walk into a bar …
• Yes, Michelle
• I’m sorry, Michelle
• It’s my fault, Michelle
• Ooh, ouch, ummph, owww, please stop, owwww, that hurts! I give, I won’t do it again, Michelle

Reason that Joe Biden misspoke:

• He opened his mouth
• He was misquoted
• We misunderstood the misquote
• His misquote was taken out of context
• We misheard the context of the misquote
• We misunderstood what we thought he said when he reiterated his misstatement in a sub-context
• He isn’t fluent in the language (English)
• English is his second language, gibberish is his native tongue
• He was recovering from a dentist visit and his mouthal parts were not yet operational
• Joe had a recent tonqueotomy, it’s not yet fully healed
• He spoke before fully removing his foot
• Even after removing his foot, various shoe parts remained, preventing his proper enunciation
• Unaware that a microphone was still “live,” Biden was heard to complain “give me a bucking frake.” Bystanders were confused since no one knew what a frake was or why it was bucking
• What should we expect, he is Joe Biden

Reason for Nancy Pelosi’s haggard facial expressions lately:

• Her face needs re-spackling
• She quit using Aging Mare horse linament ‘cause it made her face break out
• The underlying plastic foundation got too hot and sagged
• Some grout is old and flaking out
• Both eyelids snapped shut when the Krazy Glue holding them open gave way
• A resulting trip to Eyelids Are Us was disappointing since her usual size (32A) was on backorder and she was fitted with 40DD lids instead
• During her most recent facial liposuction, she required emergency re-lipping when a malfunction by the liposuction machine caused it to run amok
• It’s impossible for her to smile since her mouthular nerves were hyper-extended in a freak Folsom Street Fair incident
• Two coats of Boudreaux's Butt Paste just aren’t enough
• You could shove her face in dough and make gorilla cookies

Bawney Fwank

• He twied to warn us about the Fannie/Freddie pwoblem, but the Wepublicans wefused to listen and wouldn’t weconsider
• It is weputed that he wote a bestseller, “Foot tapping your way to airport womance” under the psuedonym, Ben Dover
• Fwank’s aides deny that he was tweated in the emergency room of Saint Sodom Hospital for wemoval of a plastic banana and two plums from an unidentified orifice. Sources speculate that it was his wectum
• Representative Fwank was honored by the Pinspotters Club of Massachusetts as the only person to have accurately positioned a full rack of ten pins individually without using his hands
• Wecently, the Blue Oyster Bar retired his favorite stall in his honor

Stay tuned ... more to come

I stumbled upon a reference to Edgar Allen Poe’s Raven the other day and remembered my fond memories of the poem. In this case, “fond” is perhaps not exactly truthful – it seems that I was required to memorize the poem as punishment in high school for some long-forgotten action.

But, I’ve always marveled at the construction of the poem (the beat, if you will). It’s technically called “trochaic octameter” (whatever that means) and is pretty unusual in its formula – and difficult to mimic.

Following is an updated version of Poe’s masterpiece (admittedly, a hack job) as I finally had to say “nevermore.” I could go on for a few more days cleaning and polishing – making it better no doubt – but I’ve got to move on to other things.

They held their “last supper” on Monday night. Spirits were high, the Messiah was about to ascend to the White House. Ever the one to up-stage everyone else, Obama wanted thirteen “apostles” present, just to one-up Jesus (who only had twelve).

One of his apostles was Michelle of Chicago, who extolled the power of “The One” by telling the assembled disciples, "He thinks he can really do anything — He does. With His own power and will, He can fix it," she said.

And Obama spoke, “Bring me your toasters, your hot plates, your constantly running toilets, and I will heal them.” “Lay not Easy Off on your oven, nor Draino on your drains, bring them to me and I will heal them.”

The assemblage had escaped from the press by slipping off in a stretch Hummer, but the only place open was Denny’s. So the “banquet room” at Denny’s was the setting for the wholly (Holy) righteous gathering. But there was a snag, the only photographer they could find who would keep the supper secret was Huda Thunket. His claim to fame was that he’d taken porno pictures of Helen Thomas (of White House press corps fame) back when black-hooded cameras and flash powder was used. Reportedly, she was a real hottie back when dirt was young.

The room was barely adequate, they’d pushed together a bunch of tables (every single one was wobbly) along with some 55-gallon drums of maple syrup and creamed chipped beef “stuff” (S.O.S., for all you military guys). The Second Assistant Deputy Night Manager was acting as their Maitre D and passed around a few well-worn menus.

David of Axelrod, Obama’s chief strategeryist, announced that the “sky’s the limit” on menu items, “go ahead and splurge, we’ve got an Amex black card billed to the taxpayer, we’ll never have to pay for anything again.”

The group was all atwitter, just imagine, carte blanche at Denny’s!

They opened the two boxes of wine they’d picked up a package store. There was a nice Chateau OuiOui, vintage Friday, and a pertinent little Cabernet Orsepee, nothing but the best for Him and his followers.

Glasses high, they toasted. First, Joe of Biden offered a toast to the networks. “We couldn’t have done it without ABC, CBS, and NBC keeping our dirty laundry out of the news.” Clinks and drinks all around. “And let’s not forget MSNBC and our paid staff there, Chris Matthews and Keith Olbermann.” “They ran interference for us and bashed our opposition unmercifully, and all we have to do is appoint them to be Federal Judges.” Again, clinks and drinks.

The “Moons Over My Hammy,” “Gastric Slam,” and “Obammy’s Obamlette,” arrived and the group dug in, sounds of plastic flatware clicking away. The usual dinner banter faded away as they stuffed their faces with Denny’s gourmet delights. More wine all around and soon the assemblage was feeling no pain (except for especially severe gastric distress).

The quiet afterglow was punctuated by flatulence (little squeaky farts, strong throaty farts, and the ever-popular motorboat farts). At least with the noisy ones, you had some warning – but the SBDs (silent, but deadly) ones were awful – the stench was unbearable. Soon, the entire group had moistened handkerchiefs tied around their noses – to little avail. The “banquet” room was awash with a foul-smelling greenish fog. Someone shouted “Don’t light a match” just as Nancy of Pelosi lit up a very large cigar.

WHOOSH! A fuel-air blast instantaneously flashed the room, ohhh, the humanity.

The smell of burned hair, beards and eyebrows replaced the previous noxious organic gas. Wisps of smoke trailed up from the heads of those unlucky enough to be close to Pelosi … and a burned-hair smell filled the room.

Miraculously, no one was seriously injured and the absence of facial hair seemed to improve Nancy of Pelosi’s appearance. The alcohol-induced numbness mitigated the pain of second-degree burns and the group immediately began to blame George Bush for an immoral and illegal attack on an innocent gathering, although two of them had actually ordered yellow cake (ala mode).

Obama stood, and with raised hands, quieted his apostles. He said solemnly, “one of you will betray me.” The group was stunned into silence. Harry of Reid lamented, “Master, who could do such a thing”?

One by one, they all proclaimed their allegiance and asserted that it would not be he (or she). Obama spoke again, “woe to he who will betray me as I will smite him with an IRS audit.” Great wailing and gnashing of teeth followed at the mere mention of an apocalyptic evil such as an IRS audit – most people would rather see famine, plague, and pestilence. It was plain to see that Obama would be a vengeful deity.

“Tell us Massa, did someone release your real birth certificate?” asked Chris of Dodd. Obama responded, “No, it remains safely in the mayonnaise jar under Tom of Daschle’s gazebo.

“Did someone find that video of you and Bill Ayers dancing around in tutus to Swan Lake?” “Or let out that you gave each other Promise rings?”

“No, John of Kerry, it is worse.” They gasped.

“Is it about the sex change operation?” Instantly, Barney of Frank knew he had committed a faux pas.

Another communal gasp, then silence … they were speechless.

The operation was supposed to remain secret from everyone but Barney of Frank. He had arranged the operation (called an “addadiktome) through some of his contacts in the “alternative” community.

Now everyone knew. So be it. At least now he could be forgiven for crying, mood swings and monthly crankiness.

Obama’s voice broke as he said softly, “One of you has voted for the devil … McCain/Palin.”

“Ohhhh noooooo.” The cries of anguish would be heard two blocks away. The wailing, full of agony and despair could only have come from a chorus of damned souls falling into the fiery abyss of Hades. Dark clouds formed, dogs howled and small animals cowered in fear.

“It was … ,” Obama paused, his voice breaking again, “Jeremiah of Wright.”

At once, Reverend Wright fell to his knees and sobbing, grabbed Obama’s legs, begging for forgiveness. “Massa, I had lust in my heart for Governor Palin – I was weak, and she promised to come to my hotel room if I would vote for her.” “I was smitten, I couldn’t help myself – I only wanted to plant the seed of Black Liberation Theology in her.” His tears fell like rain, he was truly repentant – but the deed had been done.

Obama only now noticed two black(er) eyes and cuts and bruises on the Reverend’s face. His left arm dangled funny and he kneeled with a limp.

“And she did this to you”?

“No, Massa, Todd came instead.”

And verily, let it be written that the Reverend’s pact with the devil (Governor Palin) brought his chickens home to roost. Instead of the Reverend doing the “planting,” Todd planted the punches of an angry white husband all over the Reverend. Instead of “getting some,” he got some.

Obama’s Last Slam At Denny’s ended in sadness and despair. What was to be a victory celebration became a wake; a funeral for the friendship of Obama and his mentor, his pastor, his friend.

STOP!

Do not read this without having read Book One “Obama Couldn’t Organize a Sock Drawer,” or your eyes will go funny and your houseplants will shrivel and die (even the artificial ones.) You have been warned.

 Chapter 3, interview with an independent contractor

Barry felt better after talking with Reverend Rhong. The reverend was right, he couldn’t give up so easily. The reverend had given Barry a name of someone who could use some organizing and who might help him gain the confidence of the folks in the neighborhood. They were wary of outsiders, especially whites or “brothers who talked white.”

On the way back to his apartment, he walked down Jackson Street. He stopped at 1710 and knocked. Barry could see a thin curtain open just a bit as someone peeked out. “Who is it,” a female voice asked.

“My name’s Barack Obama, Reverend Rhong said I should talk to you.” That seemed to satisfy her. Barry could hear lots of unlocking, and finally the door opened. Her name was Laticia Lovewell and she was what the reverend termed an “independent contractor.”

“You here for business or pleasure”? She asked.

“Uhhh, Reverend Rhong said that you and I may be able to uhhh help each other.” Barry couldn’t help but notice that, several layers down, under an excessive amount of makeup, she might be pretty. And, from the looks of what she was wearing, she could use some organizing.

Laticia slowly looked him over, she bit a lip to keep from laughing at the split-pea-colored suit the john was wearing. But no playa would wear an outfit like that; he must be just what he looked like … a brown Pat Boone. “Wonder where his pocket protector is,” she thought. “Okay, you can come in.”

Her place looked like a motel room inside, just minimal furniture and no personal items – could have been a Motel Two room except for the four-poster king-sized bed. “Alright, what’s this about”?

“Reverend Rhong said that you and your, ahhh, uhhh, co-workers were having trouble with your management, and he thought that I could help you and your uhhh friends get better working conditions, better pay, benefits, and better hours by organizing together, like a union.”

“A union”? Laticia laughed. “What do you think I do”? She asked with a sly grin. “I don’t know – maybe you sew or you work in a beauty shop”? Barry really had no idea – he was clueless.

“I’m a professional companion, you know”?

Barry was still puzzled and it showed.

“Men pay me and I do things for them; make them feel real good.” How dense could this guy be, she thought. Still not a glimmer of understanding from the nerd. “I’m a hooker, a ho, now do you understand?” “I do men for money.”

Oh … a ho? … Barry was speechless. He had never met a “woman of the evening,” and he just didn’t know anything about the commercial market for what she was selling.

So, for the next hour, Leticia explained the facts of “ho’ing” to Barry. She took great delight in going into explicit detail and watching him squirm. It was obvious that this kind of talk made him uncomfortable.

“So your agent arranges .. er uhhh, appointments for you and takes a portion of your earnings as his ahhh commission, it that right”? Leticia agreed. “But he still gets his commission when you ahhh, er make the sale without his help too”? Again, she agreed. “And he sometimes avails himself of your … er ah … services without paying”? “You got it, honey.”

“And you have a menu of options from which the customer … er, trick can choose?” “Right.” “And these options have individual prices, but you do offer a … ah uh … volume discount”? “You got it,” Leticia was relieved that the nerd finally got the concept.

“Now, how you gonna “organize” us”?

Barry had never thought of organizing people before. But hey, it just might work. He could organize the girls into size and color, economy or deluxe, mini or super-sized, the list was endless. “Super-size me,” “say, that would make a really keen marketing slogan.”

“Wow,” again – his massive brain was spinning – like slot reels – and the reels were stopping on “Jackpot”. “I’ll do it,” he almost shouted, “I’ll organize you”! Leticia jumped on that, “Not so fast, brown boy, you don’t get no freebies.” Barack quickly explained what he meant.

“I’ll need to know more about your business plan and staffing and how you handle depreciation, budgets, that kind of thing.”

Leticia laughed. “You one crazy dude.” “We ain’t got none of that stuff, we just do as much as we can as often as we can.” Barry was disappointed, but he couldn’t give up. He’d just have to work around it. They needed change and he needed a plan.

He’d create a Blueprint for Change. That’s the answer.

Barry made arrangements to meet Leticia tomorrow at the same time, to go over his plans for change.

Chapter 4. Barack’s Blueprint for Change

He didn’t have much to work with: a calculator, a tired Commodore 64 computer, a beat-up flip chart, and an old Smith-Corona manual typewriter, but by gum, he had a gift for organizing! He was the one the ho’s had been waiting for!

Barry started a list. Working from notes he made while interviewing Leticia, he listed the services and the rates. He did some plain and fancy calculating and ciphering. He compared and analyzed. He even went to the library and contacted an attorney referred by Reverend Rhong. His organizing was working out and his plan was shaping up.

There were six employees in Leticia’s group, managed by a plmp called “Sup Dawg.” Besides Leticia, there was Merrilee Godown, Juana Dumey, Suga Sweet, Amanda Lay, and Geneva Convention. Of course, Barry knew that these were their “professional” names, nom de ho’s as it were.

One thing was clear, Sup Dawg was taking one-third of their earnings for doing little, sometimes nothing, and getting fat on the backs of the girls (so to speak) while the girls were getting the shaft (no comment).

They should have health coverage, child care, educational benefits, and retirement – but management was doing what management always does by nature - being greedy while the employees get screwed (ed. note: er … no … nevermind).

He compiled his Blueprint for Change, converting his hand-written notes into a flip chart presentation. He was ready.

He got to Leticia’s place a little early. This time, she let him in quickly. He set up his flip chart, the top page read simply “CHANGE” in block letters. The other girls showed up right on time and sat down. They didn’t understand why they were there; they only came because Leticia called a meeting. They were skeptical when they saw Obama present – who is the big-eared guy, and why was he here?

Barry introduced himself and proceeded to explain how he had analyzed their operations, their revenue and expenses. He seemed to grasp the realities of their business. They were impressed. Besides, he was “articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy,” (little did they know that one day, a U.S. Senator would describe him that way).

“Are you ready for a change”? Subdued answers all around.

He flipped the CHANGE page up, exposing his title page. It read simply, “Community Therapy Clinic, LLC.” Questioning looks from one to another traveled around the room – they were puzzled.

“I’m proposing that we set up a nonprofit LLP, a Limited Liability Partnership. It’ll be a charitable organization, and we, uhhhh you, will provide therapy services to the male patients.”

He flipped to the next page. “Federal and state grant money will pay for an office, social services will cover all of our expenses, and the cash fees for treatments are tax-deductible to your clients since we’re a 501(c)(3).” “And here’s the cash cow … we’ll bill Medicare for the senior citizens you … uhhh … treat.”

Geneva was first with a comment. “I ain’t doin no old dudes.” “Hold on, Geneva,” Barry responded, “We can bill Medicare $445 for each treatment of an old dude.” “And they’ll need therapy once a week for six or eight weeks. That means recurring income, that’s change you can count on.” “Ooowee, honey, sign me up!” Geneva would learn to be kind to wrinkly old men.

Suga was next, she wanted to know how much she would make in this new clinic. Suga was a small-sized girl and barely legal. Barry would categorize her as a “Therapist, Mini.” Barry happily responded, “I estimate over $80,000 annually for starters.” Smiles and grins all around.

Pointing to the chart, Barry said “Column 1 is your rate structure now.” It showed each girl’s rate for a [bleep]. He pointed to column 2 which showed a flat rate of $60. “You mean that I’m, uh, we gonna charge $60 for a [bleep]”? “That’s right,” affirmed Barry. He went on to explain the other services and the increased rates – the girls were catching on – enthusiastically. “Honey, I’m not sure I’m worth that much,” said Juana, grinning from ear to ear.

Merrilee wanted to know how the patients would find out about the clinic if Sup Dawg wasn’t soliciting for them. “Reverend Rhong has agreed to let us place advertising in the church bulletin and on their website – for a small monthly offering.”

“And, we’ll have Dr. Chris P. Bacon on staff, just to make it legal.” “Dr. Bacon will examine the men and prescribe a series of therapy sessions and we’ll bill social services or Medicare for the treatments.” The money would all come from “Barryland,” where money was plentiful because the taxpayer’s supply was endless.

“Damn, you is smart.” Amamda was of the super-sized persuasion. She would be classified as a “Therapist, Grandé.” She was one of the most “talented” of the stable. It was said, that she had some special talent having to do with a bowling ball and a garden hose (the significance of that talent hadn’t yet dawned on Barry).

Leticia had saved her comments for last. “How can we thank you for organizing our little community of independent contractors?” “You are our Messiah, you are a wonderful man.”  

If Obama is elected, applicants for the position of Press Secretary must score highest in competitive testing and agree to the following:

• Which one would kowtow the lowest (while facing Obama),
• Which one could get his nose further up Obama’s fanny,
• Who was most adept at sprinkling rose petals in Obama’s path as he walked,
• Which one would contribute the largest percentage of his/her worldly belongings to Obama,
• Which one would compose the most moving “call to Obama” to be chanted from newly constructed minarets,
• Which one would personally create the most impressive ice sculpture of Obama (cannot use a professional),
• Which one would legally assign his/her internal organs to Obama (in case he needed it/one/them/etc.),
• Which one would agree to undergo root canals and colonoscopies in Obama’s place,
• Which one will agree to bleed if Obama gets cut and take an enema if Obama is constipated,
• Which one would agree to undergo any/all unpleasant activities in Obama’s place, including spousal relations with Michelle,
• Which one would agree to eat the grits and drink the coffee if Obama ever stops at Flo’s Café again
• Will agree to accept responsibility for any flatulence (gas passed) in a social setting
• Which one would agree to be Obama’s stand-in for any interviews where no teleprompter is available
• Which one would agree to bowl in Obama’s place (applicant with the highest average gets extra credit)
• Which one would agree to guard Obama (man-to-man) when playing any pickup basketball game (Obama’s high score gets extra credit)
• Which one would agree to replace Obama in any interview with Bill O’Reilly
• Must agree to hug Nancy Pelosi in Obama’s place when greeting her in any political setting
• Must agree to taka a bullet for Obama and to taste all food when Obama is invited to dinner at the Clintons
• If God calls Obama home, applicant agrees to go in his stead

Chapter 1, the dream.

Barry Obama was thinking about himself, thinking about the future. He had just graduated from Columbia a few days ago and knew he needed to finalize a decision about what to do and where to do it. He took another hit, coughed and lay back against his couch.

Thinking always tired him out; sapped his energy. It was like fueling his massive brain sucked the energy from his limbs and he just fell limp. He relaxed, and in moments, he was sound asleep.

 [Scene: Imagine blurry, misty visions of assorted stuff to indicate that this is supposed to be a dream – then dissolve to a bright, cheery Container Store]

Barry was waiting just inside the door. He was happy – almost glowing, and eager to greet the young woman entering the store. “Good morning miss, how may I help you?”

“My place is a mess and I need help. My mom is visiting tomorrow and she’s a neat-freak. I need to straighten up my apartment, especially my closet.”

“You’ve come to the right place, I, Barack Hussein Obama am the Messiah of The Container Store and I knowI have the change you are hoping for.” A quick snap of the Obama fingers and they were in the elfa® closet accessories department.

“Sit back and enjoy, Miss Schauers (somehow, he just knew her name), I know just what you need.” He motioned for her to sit. She slid into the overstuffed leather recliner and it engulfed her, welcomed her body like a lover’s embrace. She had never felt so completely content before; her legs tingled.

Barry snapped his magical fingers again and parts of a closet display began to move about, slowly shifting and rearranging themselves, until finally they stopped and a soft glow emanated from the finished elfa® Platium closet setup.

“Voila!” “The voice seemed to come from the closet itself, “I am the change, the change that you’ve been hoping for, April.”

“Oh my,” she beamed. “It’s beautiful – and the clothes … wait, are those my clothes?” “Those are my clothes!” “It’s all done and it is beautiful, but I’m sure that it is much more than I can afford.”

“Not to worry April, you don’t have to pay for it, someone else will pay for it.” It pleased Barry to help people and besides, money was plentiful in Barryland. In Barryland, he could give everyone new closet organizers and taxpayers would pay for all of it.

April didn’t even ask - there was no question that the entire setup, clothes and all, would somehow, magically, transport itself to her apartment. She just knew that it would be there when she got home.

April was in heaven, her mom would be so proud (she was really picky). She hugged Barry and kissed him on the cheek. “You are a wonderful, wonderful man – I couldn’t have organized my closet without you.”

Barry loved adoration, he wore it well. “I know,” he said wisely.

“BUT WAIT,” Barry thought. “What was that she said, “organizing” – that’s it! I was born to be an organizer.” “I can organize the world, one shoe box at a time.”

[Scene: blurry visions of stuff to indicate that Barry is waking from the dream.]

We find our hero sprawled on the floor, a little drool at the corner of his mouth. His eyes flash open – “Organizer, that’s what I’ll do – I’ll organize stuff for people, lots of people, even whole communities!”

Now invigorated and enthused, Barry began to plot his next move.

Barry found himself thinking to the tune of “Green Acres.” “Chicago is the place for me, organizing is the life for me, communities are spreading out so far and wide, keep Manhattan, just give me Chicago’s South side.” He would move to Chicago.

Chapter 2, the first day.

A month later, Barry was in Chicago. He’d found a place deep in Chicago’s south side – exactly where he felt the need to be.

It was a small apartment off of E. 130^th St., nothing fancy but clean. “It’s a start,” he thought, “today, E. 130^th St., tomorrow, a deluxe apartment in the sky – I’m movin’ on up!”

This morning, he decided to begin going door-to-door in a shabby neighborhood a couple of blocks away. There ought to be folks here that really needed change, he hoped so.

At the first house, a really large woman answered the door.

“Good morning, ma’am, my name is Barack Obama and I’m here to organize your curio cabinet, your silverware, or your lingerie, I’ll just bet you need organizing.”

“Don’t go talking that sexchul talk to me, ni**er, I’ll kick yo a** down the street.” She slammed the door hard, the wind blasting him backwards. “Maybe I should’ve asked about her master suite’s closet?” he thought.

The next house went better. Another large woman in a robe was more polite, she invited him in. “You look thirsty honey, I’ll fix you a nice cold drink.” Her robe accidentally slipped open a little – a little was enough, there was a lot that was trying to get out. Fighting back a flight reflex, his instinct was a little too slow and she set a glass of clear liquid in front of him. “Drink up honey,” she cooed. “You’ll like it and we can … talk.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a ‘dew me,’ she smiled, Mountain Dew and Everclear, it’ll perk you right up.”

“Uhhh, ma’am, ahhh uhhh I uhhh do you need uhhh organizing?”

“Oh Lordy, do I evah, Ah needs organizing real bad.” She moved towards him, the robe slipping a little more, a lot more coming out.

That was enough. Barry bolted for the door. His feet didn’t touch the ground until they hit the asphalt of the street. He covered the next 100 meters in record time. He’d rather be the main event at a Klan rally than organize that woman. This “organizing” thing wasn’t going to be easy.

He decided to try one more before he lost his nerve.

Another knock - another screen door squeaks open. This time it’s a large man (“aren’t there any small people here?” he thought). “Good morning, sir, my name is Barack Obama and I’m a professional organizer, is the lady of the house at home?”

The man scowled. “Aha, so you is dat uppity ni**er been doin my woman, I’m gonna cut you.” He pushed the door open and reached for Barry. But this time, Barry was ready, he jumped from the porch and went for the gold. He outran three cars and a motorcycle before stopping at the next street.

Breathless and dejected, he walked slowly, head down, until he happened upon two kids, they couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. One was sitting on a battered “Big Wheel,” the other was leaning against a rickety fence, staring at Barry.

“Hey, why you dressed like dat?”

Barry was wearing his brand new lime green Costco suit, complete with faux silk tie. “Because I’m a professional organizer, little brother.”

“I ain’t yo brother, ni**er,” and he grabbed his crotch and shot Barry the finger. At the same time, the Big Wheel kid rammed the bike into Barry’s knee from behind, knocking him to the ground. They both piled on and relieved Barry of his wallet and the six dollars it contained. They were gone by the time he regained his senses and got up.

Barry was now disappointed, disillusioned, and … mugged.

As a last resort, he stopped at a church. Not a particularly religious man, what could it hurt to sit for a spell? Inside, he sat down in the cool quiet and rested, revisiting his futile attempts to organize anything so far. His first morning was an utter failure.

“Troubled, my brother?” The voice came from behind Barry. He turned and found a smiling black man dressed in an African Dashiki. “I’m the pastor here, Reverend Jeremiah Rhong.”

Barry spilled his guts. He related his dream, his move to Chicago, and his first morning trying to help people, and being mugged by two nine-year-olds street toughs. He was distraught and close to tears.  

“It’s not your fault, my brother. “Don’t give up.” “There’s plenty of things that need organizing here.” “You could help me organize last Sunday’s take, … er … collections – you know, count the money (or should that have been Count de Monet?). “You could organize radios and rims for Jermaine – he has a “parts” business.” “Or, Little Willie could use some organizing of his “herbs and powders.” “There’s lots that needs organizing, I won’t let you give up – you gotta have hope if you want to change.”

Reverend Rhong was wright right! He had a God-given gift for organizing; he was especially talented when arranging knick-knacks, bric-a-brac, and curios – you know, really important stuff.

”You’re right, I’ve got to fight the good fight, like the ant moving the rubber-tree plant – I’ve got high hopes.” “Thanks, Reverend – I’ll be sitting in my own pew on Sunday.”

“Baadaye” “That’s see you later in Swahili.” Rev. Rhong said as Barry left.

Click the link for the next episode of our ongoing serial

What does he/she do, organize communities? Is that like organizing a sock drawer? Or organizing your thoughts, or desktop contents? What exactly did Obama do during those three years in Chicago?

Community organizing is a process by which people are brought together to act in common self-interest. While organizing describes any activity involving people interacting with one another in a formal manner, much community organizing is in the pursuit of a common agenda. Many groups seek populist goals and the ideal of participatory democracy. Community organizers create social movements by building a base of concerned people, mobilizing these community members to act, and developing leadership from and relationships among the people involved.

The father of community organizing is generally considered to be Saul David Alinsky (January 30, 1909, Chicago, Illinois - June 12, 1972, Carmel, California). He was a social activist who taught and wrote about radical activities. Following are two of his books:

Reveille for Radicals (1946). 2nd edition 1969, Vintage Books paperback: ISBN 0-679-72112-6

Rules for Radicals: A Pragmatic Primer for Realistic Radicals (1971) Random House, ISBN 0-394-44341-1, Vintage books paperback: ISBN 0-679-72113-4

Some notable community organizers were:

Saul Alinsky

César Chávez

Jesse Jackson

Martin Luther King, Jr.

And, Barack Obama.

So, how’d Obama do as a community organizer?

He moved to Chicago in 1985, a little more than a year after he graduated from Columbia University in NYC. Thirteen years after Alinsky died, a former Alinsky student recruited 24-year-old Barack Obama as an organizer.

He was hired by Jerry Kellman, a Chicago organizer, to a $13,000 a year job, plus $2,000 for a car, as a community organizer in South Chicago. Obama was trained to work in the Alinsky method of community organizing.

At the heart of the Alinsky method is the concept of “agitation”–making someone angry enough about the rotten state of his life that he agrees to take action to change it; or, as Alinsky himself described the job, to “rub raw the sores of discontent.”

He was to lead the Developing Communities Project (DCP), which would target African American neighborhoods on Chicago’s South Side by working with African American churches in the area. During Obama’s time as a community organizer, Harold Washington was serving as Chicago’s first black mayor.

Obama described the work of a community organizer in a chapter he wrote for a 1990 book called After Alinsky: Community Organizing in Illinois.

He wrote, in part: “Over the past five years, I've often had a difficult time explaining my profession to folks. Typical is a remark a public school administrative aide made to me one bleak January morning, while I waited to deliver some flyers to a group of confused and angry parents who had discovered the presence of asbestos in their school.”

"Listen, Obama," she began. "You're a bright young man, Obama. You went to college, didn't you?" I nodded. "I just cannot understand why a bright young man like you would go to college, get that degree and become a community organizer." "Why's that?"

"Cause the pay is low, the hours is long, and don't nobody appreciate you." She shook her head in puzzlement as she wandered back to attend to her duties.

In terms of concrete accomplishments, Obama and “hundreds of other organizers” were not able to transform the South Side neighborhoods or bring in new industries to provide jobs. Obama’s most commonly cited achievement was in forcing the city to begin testing for asbestos in all city apartments.

As a mentor to public housing residents, Obama says he initiated and led efforts that thrust Altgeld's asbestos problem into the headlines, pushing city officials to call hearings and a reluctant housing authority to start a cleanup.

But others tell the story much differently. They say Obama did not play the singular role in the asbestos episode that he portrays in the best-selling memoir 'Dreams From My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance.' Credit for pushing officials to deal with the cancer-causing substance, according to interviews and news accounts from that period, also goes to a well-known preexisting group at Altgeld Gardens and to a local newspaper called the Chicago Reporter. Obama does not mention either one in his book." [Los Angeles Times, 2/19/07]

Dissatisfied with his lack of success and faced with frustrations, after three years in Chicago, Obama decided to apply his skills in the wider world. In 1988, at 27, he left Chicago and entered Harvard Law School.

One thing that remains from Obama’s community organizing days,

remember this paragraph?

At the heart of the Alinsky method is the concept of “agitation”–making someone angry enough about the rotten state of his life that he agrees to take action to change it; or, as Alinsky himself described the job, to “rub raw the sores of discontent.”

That pretty much describes Obama’s presidential political campaign. Looks like he is attempting to use the Alinsky method on us right now, doesn’t it?

Three shiny, new black SUVs pulled up in front of Flo’s Café and parked. Two “suits” got out, one from the first car and one from the third, and stood silently while looking through their dark sunglasses at the quiet street with the single traffic light. After a scan of the area found no items of concern, the first “suit” said something to his shoulder and doors opened.

Five men in black got out and gathered around an open door of the middle SUV as Barack Hussein Obama stepped out into the sunlight. He looked like the all-American politician, open necked pale blue shirt with sleeves rolled up, and khaki chinos. And smiling – boy, was he smiling, and what a set of gleaming teeth. A little sparkle flashed as the sunlight reflected off those pearly-whites.

He was in the heartland, and since an accident on the Interstate forced a detour, he decided to sample some real Midwest cuisine. So, a couple of miles of back-road driving brought the caravan to Flo’s.

Hankpanky was real small-town Ohio, only 320 residents, one traffic light, two barbers, four bars, two gas stations, two (real) restaurants, and Flo’s. The town’s only claim to fame was when Caroline Kennedy (accidentally) drove her Oldsmobile off the road and into Eurine Creek and damn near “drownded” Eric Holder. They were the vetting team checking out Obama’s candidates for Vice President. They had eaten at Flo's and liked it.

Flo’s was owned and operated by Florence I’Tally, a tall, slim, middle-aged blonde (helped along by Revlon) who was constantly chewing bubble gum. Looking like an icon from the 50’s in her blue and white waitress outfit. She looked the part.

“Suit one” opened the squeaky front door and held it as the others filed in. “Boy howdy, this looks like a mortician’s convention comin’ in.” Al, the cook, looked up to see what Flo was talking about. “Jezzus Flo, that’s that guy – that’s that Obomber guy.” “What Obomber guy?” Flo was not what you’d call “informed,” uni-formed was as close as she’d get to “informed.” If it wasn’t on American Idol, it didn’t exist – besides, she spent her off hours entertaining her men-friends.

Suits two and three slid into a booth facing the door and across from Obama. The other two took the booth closest to the door.

“Morning Miss, I hear you have good food here.” The black guy was making small talk. Flo quipped back with her stock reply, “Honey, we've got the third best food in town!”

“Where you fellas from?” Obama was a little surprised that she didn’t seem to recognize him. “We’re from Washington, D.C.” “Ooohwee, you’re a long way from home, ain’t cha?” she smacked her gum a few times.

“You mean you don’t know who I am?”

Flo didn’t like that response “who’s he think he is” she thought. “No, sir, I ain’t got a clue – who are you?” She blew a small bubble.

“I’m going to be your next President.”

Flo laughted, "No way, honey, you’re black, and I know for a fact that John McCain is white, so you can't be no John McCain.”

Suits two and three stifled back laughter, suit four did giggle aloud – which really ticked off Obama – he turned and glared at suit four for a moment.” “I am Barack Obama,” he said with some haughtiness in his voice.

“Bareact O’who?”

“Obama, Obama.”

“Well honey, don’t go getting all huffy. How’m I supposed to know who you are – ain’t got no name tag or nothing?” She blew a big bubble this time. Pop.

Obama regained his composure – “can’t let this moronic twit get me upset,” he thought. “I’m sorry, miss, I’m a candidate for President and my name is Barack Obama. I thought you might have seen me on TV.”

“Don’t watch much TV, Mister Olabama.” Suit three turned away and you could see his body shaking, doing his best to fight back the laughter. Chew, chew, smack, pop.

Obama regained control, “that’s fine, maybe we can get menus then.”

“Shore honey, Al, gimme two more menus.” Al was smiling too now. Ellis was due to take the late morning shift soon, but Al thought he might want to hang around and watch this guy duel with Flo. He’d lose of course, Flo was the queen of the acid comebacks.

“Can you make an egg-white omlet with arugula?”

“Honey," she paused, "I got egg-whites, I got Jimmy Dean sausage, I got bacon, I got hotcakes, but I ain’t got none of that argoola stuff. I got grits, you want grits?”

Obama took a deep breath, “just bring me orange juice, decaf coffee, bacon, and two or three of those grits, I’ll try them.”

“Two or three grits?” Flo was perplexed, ain’t nobody ever asked her for “two or three grits” before. Was he making fun of her? “I’ll slap that skinny big-eared weasel silly,” she thought. No, wait, maybe he was just one of those "slow" people.

The suits, all four of them, were doing their best to look serious yet still laughing inside. This was too much.

“I’m sorry, I stand corrected, I’ll have a bowl of those grit things.”

She picked up a coffee pot (a nice, fresh pot for the suits) and proceeded to fill the suit's cups. Chew, pop, chew, pop.

“Is that decaf?” Big ears asked. “No, this is ‘caf,’ sir, I’ll be back with yours in just a minute.” Flo picked up the oldest, stalest pot still on the warmer (it had been "coagulating" for days) and filled Omama’s cup. “Here’s your decaf, sir.” “Right," she thought, she’d seen roofing tar thinner than that swill, "hope he likes it.” Pouring it was like pouring thick paint, Flo half expected it to make a glop, glop, glop sound as she poured.

“We’ve got to get going, can you bag our food to go?” asked suit one. “Sure, only take a minute.” Flo was happy to see them go, that one Omumba guy that looked like a brown Herman Munster was a real pain in the butt.

Al quickly packaged everything into Styrofoam containers, everything except the grits – Flo took care of the grits. Suit two handed Flo a credit card and signed it when she returned. They hurriedly left and got into the SUVs.

That’s when she noticed that they had stiffed her, no tip, no tip at all. “What buttholes.”

The three SUVs pulled out and sped away.

“Oh well, I guess that makes us even. If they’d left a decent tip I’d feel bad about filling that paper bag full of runny grits, now not so much.” She blew a small bubble and popped it.

Al busted out laughing, “you poured runny grits into a paper bag?”

“Yep, there’s a whole lotta little gritses in that bag and they’re just itchin' to get out.” "Be free, little gritses!"

It has been said that the uncommon zeal exhibited by Barack Obama’s followers is more like a religion than a political movement. It is so. We have uncovered tenets of the theocracy surrounding this messianic candidate. In order to better understand the movement and, in the spirit of forgiveness (for they know not what they do), accept them into our hearts, we provide this information.

Variations of Obamanism

The Fundamentalist Obamanites believe in the inerrancy of the Prophet Obama’s holy website.

The majority of his followers believe that the statements made on his holy website, barackobama.com, are infallible when berating his opponent, Senator John McCain or bashing the President, George W. Bush. But they believe that when discussing healthcare, taxes, abortion, William Ayers, Rev. Wright or anything else, he speaks in an ancient tongue not fully understood by mortals and thus, he is often misquoted and misunderstood.

Some of his flock are staunch defenders of each and every word on the holy site – they believe that barackobama.com (having been blessed by the Prophet) is incapable of hosting anything but truth – it is entirely inerrant. It even states “I AM HE WHO AM,” and they believe that he really “is he who is.”

The Four-day Obamanites are a small spin-off faction of the Seventh-day Obamanites but meet in 4-day Tire store for worship. The tire shop surroundings have resulted in a “What Goes Around, Comes Around” doctrine to keep the faithful from hydroplaning down the road of life.

With sermon themes like “Inflate Your Tires, Not Your Ego” and “Stay Pumped Up, Don’t Fall Flat,” the Four-day Obamanite congregation expects a “Good Year” as a result.

A Reform (or Reformed) Obaminite believes that Obama’s dogma is a “living” dogma. It is subject to constant reinterpretation in an attempt to keep pace with the Obamessiah’s dogma de jour.

Reform Obamism is a form of Confusionism which embraces the Phlip Phlop creed. The creed tells of a Mantra of Alternating Voices by which one may confuse voters by talking out of both sides of one’s mouth.

First defined by Master Dam Wee Phlip in 1610 and further expounded by Sub-master Ewe Kan Phlop in 1612, the scripture requires that disciples constantly change position to keep Republican demons from gaining advantage. Those who follow this scripture are known as Phlip Phloppers and religiously follow opinion polls.

Some berate the Prophet when speaking extemporaneously because he often pauses and inserts an “uhhhh” or an “ahhhh” into his replies. The faithful prefer to believe that Obama is meditating during the “uhhhh” and “ahhhh” pauses in his sermons, all the while thinking far ahead of any mere mortal.

A Conservative Obaminite is an oxymoron; no such thing exists.

An Orthodox Obaminite is a Marxist in a Ralph Lauren suit – a Ray Nagin (New Orleans Mayor) with a better façade. The group’s philosophy is “Let Sleeping Dogmas Lie.” Orthodox Obaminites attend worship services but are oblivious to sermons. Instead, they meditate on important issues, like Priestess Scarlett Johansson in a teddy, Scarlett Johansson in a bikini, and Scarlett Johansson without her priestly trappings.

No matter the sect, all Obaminites embrace the theology of “He is the One We’ve Been Waiting For” for faith fills their hearts and they yearn for his triumph. Lives will be complete, ambitions achieved, and all will be right in the heavens.

Passages from The Book of Soros, The Book of Wright, The Book of Ayers, etc. have not yet been fully translated. The first book to be completed was The Book of Deception. It is presented here:

The Prophet Obama, the Book of Deception

For I will stretch out My hand, and smite McCain with all my wonders which I will do in the midst thereof. Neither will the people hearken to the voice of McCain. He is old of body, and of a slow tongue, lest he be the king and bring upon us an age liken unto the old king and beget an era of war.

And Obama said unto McCain, what is that in thine hand? And McCain said, it is a rod of truth. And Obama said, cast it on the ground. And he cast it on the ground, and it became a serpent of truth; and Obama shrank and fled from before it.

And God (not Obama) spoke

Verily I say unto you, why have Democrats sent us such a false prophet? He hath naught in his heart, not truth, not wisdom. He hath gathered no straw, he has built no shelter, nor has he suffered a bondage. He is empty of tunic and his head is of air, he knows naught but what he is bid by the Pharisees of Soros and the minions of moveon. And he has not a strong hand and our enemies will know he is weak and rain down stones and fire upon us.

If Obama is chosen, the fault hath lain in thine own people and great taxes and bondage will fall on the country. He will smite our swords and take them away, our children will be cut from the womb, and He will bring pestilence and frogs and locusts and swarms of flies upon the land. Fish and insects will be exalted and people will be diminished. Thunder and hail will darken the land. Our oils will dry up and our lamps will dim and freedom will shrivel and die.

And we will be beholden to the false prophet.

OBEY MY WORD: SPEAK NOT OBAMA, SPEAK MCCAIN