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.
Barney of Frank stood, “If I may, I’d like to recognize three newspapers, the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and the Washington Post.” “They suppressed stories that would have doomed the campaign.” “I propose that we name them as official disseminators of news for the new administration, and that we ban all other news outlets.” The response was a unanimous ‘Amen.” After all, there was no need for the public to know any more than the DNC was willing to release.
The photographer, Huda Thunket, arranged everyone on one side of the tables, six to one side of the Messiah, seven on the other. Apart from Obama (who seemed to have a glowing halo backlighting his head) they were all in various stages of conversation when he took the picture. It would become famous as “The Last Slam At Denny’s.”
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.
Obama would never forgive Jeremiah of Wright. He lost Illinois by one vote – Jeremiah’s – and lost the election by 21 electoral votes - Illinois.