Tag Archives: satire

The Democrat Party: About That Messy Democracy Thing…

In a stunning reversal, the Democrat Party has dramatically updated its party platform heading into the 2012 elections. The announcement was made in an email blast under the header “About that messy democracy thing.”

Surprisingly, the email stirred little controversy in left-leaning circles. It was apparently sent out several weeks back, but wasn’t even commented upon until a moderate was accidentally forwarded it on a college listserv.

This is what registered Democrats received in their inbox:

Dear Amazingly Steadfast Party Supporter,

Democracy has served our country well. It gave our constituents goodies by the sweat of other people’s brows, cushioned our air-conditioned staff lounges, and ensured even petty social activists could reach the soaring heights of elected office. We don’t have to tell you how much we appreciate merely having to take a token oath to retire with full pay and the bennies. That’s not the point.

We’ve reached a stage in our country now when we’re having a different crisis every day – a terrible situation to be in – and we’ve arrived at the hard conclusion that it’s time to take all the decision-making out of your hands. Don’t worry, now – that’s our job.

Let’s face it, we’re smarter than you people. We have our ivy league degrees, and the time we spent at that one conference in Cancun last year, what was it – Public Policy: Who Needs It? – and we feel it would be inappropriate for you to tell us how to do our jobs. We’re so much more advanced than you and we wouldn’t want you to blow a neuron trying to keep up with us. Pardon us for being honest for a change.

Although we’re going to keep the name “Democrat Party,” trademarks and copyrights, you see, we’re going to have to start doing away with this messy democracy thing. Ironically enough, it’s bad for business. And if we may speak plainly, yall are just interfering.

Now, we’re going to take good care of you, don’t fret. We’re going to give you universal healthcare of the highest quality, retirement pensions starting at age 40 (with good behavior), free education, free college, and no more of that nasty military business. We’ll also give you free food, free shelter, free clothing, free wi-fi, free computers, free cable television…these are all human rights now, and no one can ever take them away from you. This is all predicated on your perfect amenability to these arrangements, I’m sure you understand.

Anyways, it’s been fun America. We enjoyed these little election exercises. It gave everyone a chance to get out for a while, get some fresh air, finally meet the neighbors. But you see, it’s such a waste of time and energy. Things would be so much more efficient and just plain better if we could attend to the duties of ruling you for your own good without your interference. We don’t mean to meddle. It’s all a part of making the world a better place, and we want you to comply.

Take care, America. We hope you like your new masters. If not, you can always call 1-800-4YR-GOOD and an SSR (Subject Service Representative) will try to contact you within the next 24 hours (*due to high volume, we cannot always ensure prompt response).

We gave it a good go, America. But now it’s time to submit.

Sincerely, The Democrat Party

Author’s note: The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.

On the Couch: A Post-Comatose Democrat Awakens to the Obama Administration

When the Democrat Support Group ended, I felt as lonely and bewildered as at any other time in my life. Instead of giving me approval for my solidly progressive views, the group had scolded me for my supposed “refusal to take responsibility.” And then to make matters worse, the doctor, obviously an educated man, sided with the other patients! Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to my time on the couch with Dr. Paul Alethia, the rigid shrink who ran the hospital psychiatric ward.

The nurse wheeled me into the doc’s private office straight after the support group meeting. As I entered the room, I took a few mental notes about the man who would be picking my brain for the next hour. The wheelchair slowed as we ran onto the verdant green luxuriant carpet. To my right, glossy trophies and plaque were presented neatly in the corner of the room. Before me, a gorgeous mahogany desk, and upon it, an emerald pen holder and writing pen. A yellow pad of paper sat haphazardly cast on the reflective surface leading up to a dark brown leather chair.

Rachel, the charming and mysterious nurse, pushed me towards the leather couch near the window. She deftly parted the curtains to let a stream of milky white light into the room. She leaned over to set the brakes, and then came closer in order to place her long thin arms around me. Her reddish brown hair brushed against my face. It smelled like cheap, clean VO5 shampoo, but in my mind, it was heavenly.

After Rachel laid me onto the couch, she departed while leaving the door open for the doctor. After the young lady’s flowing white image receded, my mind searched out the reasons for my predicament. Staring at the wooden lines running parallel on the ceiling, stretching away from me like the contours of my thoughts, I felt an unexpected sense of peace wash over me. I felt like giving in, or more accurately, letting my demons go. Who was torturing me so, and how could I vanquish him?

The busy rustle of a business suit entering the room broke my daydream. It was followed by the airy swing and heavy thunk of an oaken door. Finally, the click of a brass door handle.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carter,” the silver-bearded doctor said with a warm, but professional tone. “I’m so glad you can join me this afternoon.”

The psychiatrist moved briskly over to his desk, placed his leather binder into a drawer and locked it, and then snatched up the yellow notepad and pen. Sitting down upon a classically upholstered leather chair, he remained with his eyes fixed on his notepad while he spoke.

“So, Mr. Carter,” the doctor said nonchalantly and cleared his throat. “Why do you think you’re here?”

“Well,”  I began, “I fell down at my college faculty lounge…”

‘Tuh-tuh-tuh,’ the doctor clicked his tongue and began furiously jotting notes on his pad.

“I was having a conversation with two of my colleagues…” I continued on, unsure of myself.

“Yes,” the doctor interjected with an approving tone that caused the word to hang in the air, prodding me in the right direction.

“We were talking about the war…”

“A-ha!” the doctor exclaimed with a volume that was inappropriately loud, yet not shockingly so.

“The subject of the Patriot Act and the president is the last thing I remember before passing out…”

“Right, right,” the psychiatrist said in a strangely satisfied tone of voice.

“What do you mean, right?” I finally mustered the courage to ask, increasingly annoyed by the odd little man’s antics.

“Well, it appears you have a classic case of BDS – Bush Derangement Syndrome.”

“Excuse me,” I reacted in shock, “But that’s not an actual clinical diagnosis. That’s just a right-wing talking point.”

“No, no, no,” the doctor reassured me. “There is a valid underlying pathology to it, I assure you.”

“Well, I have all the time in the world for you to explain it to me.”

“Very good,” the doctor said, setting down his pen on the lamp stand. “You are interested in recovering. That is a crucial first step. What you have done is you have conflated all the evils of the world with the actions of real people – conservatives, or Republicans, more accurately. You have personified the evils of the world in your mind, and in your constellation of evil people, Bush is the devil who rules them all.”

“Doctor, you’ll have to forgive me,” I said dismissively, not believing my ears. “But I’m not religious.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” the doctor said in a corrective tone. “You are quite religious. Your God is the state and the path to redemption for you lay in altruism or self-sacrifice. The sins of your religion are greed, selfishness, individuality. For you, any limits that people place on the state – which you call ‘society’ – is an act of immorality. In your mind, these people are preventing the community from coming together and building a better world.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” I asked, befuddled. “Who could be opposed to such a thing?”

“No one is opposed to such a goal, except for a few social recluses,” the doctor said sympathetically. “What you refuse to acknowledge are the limits of the world. Objective reality. Scarcity. Human nature. True evil. It’s not that conservatives are against helping the poor, it’s that they’re against stealing from working people and harming producers and productivity to do so. It’s not that conservatives are for war because they are bloodthirsty and cruel, it is that they appreciate there are evil people who do seek to harm others. It’s not that they are against people having enough, it is that they believe everyone should chip in and do his fair share of real work.”

“And inequality?” I responded angrily. “What about inequality?”

“Inequality is an aspect of reality. The way to address it is not to lay the successful low, but to lift those who are struggling up. In psychology, there is a process called learning, which comes primarily from operant conditioning, associations of pleasantness with reward and unpleasantness with failure…”

“Yes, Pavlov’s dog,” I mumbled.

“Not exactly,” the doctor said with a laugh. “But say you have a society of people outsourcing their failures to the state. The means are simple – state-financed debt, for example. What do you think is the end result of such a society?”

“Umm, failure?” I responded, unsure of how else to answer.

“So, Mr. Carter, you aren’t a solipsist after all!” the doctor said with a cheery sparkle in his voice.

“Let me get this straight,” I plucked up the courage to speak straightaway on my own. “What makes someone a Democrat is the belief that it is compassionate to remove all penalties for failures and believe that they can be supernaturally absorbed by the state?”

“Go on…” the doctor gently pushed me.

“And this is false compassion because the state cannot succeed when people become weaker and more dependent on others through a lack of learning…”

“Well, the state cannot succeed,” the doctor corrected me. “But political rulers do.”

“You mean when the state subsidizes weakness, the government becomes stronger and the citizens become weaker?”

“That’s right,” the doctor said with a sound of satisfaction in his voice.

“Then how do people help themselves and others?” I asked, intrigued at this way of looking at things.

“People should learn from their mistakes, focus on responsibility and self-government. And the hard-and-fast rule for helping others is that it always should be based on voluntarism and charity. Never through coercion. Never through force. Never by punishing the successful and the productive in order to lift up the poor and the weak. It ultimately doesn’t help them. It harms all of us in the long run.”

“Thank you, doctor,” was all I could make out. Tremendously humbled by the experience, the only thing I could do now was mull the doctor’s words and plan how to start my new life.

Author’s note: This is the fourth installment of a five-part series. The following links contain the first, second, and third installments. The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.

Dear President Obama- free ammo!


Dear President Obama,

I applaud that chic who testified before the world that the right to free abortion drugs and contraception is more important than the right to free expression of religion. It helps us see clearly the only other problem that is actually more important: the right to free ammunition.

Let me be clear, it is a God given right to keep and bear arms, and that right shall not be infringed. Well, with the recent price increases of all ammunition, including practice grade, that right is almost gone. I personally know students who can no longer afford to load their primary magazine to full capacity, let alone carry spares!

Now what about safety? Clearly a person who keeps and bears arms but cannot afford to practice is much more dangerous than one who hits what she’s aiming at. This economic issue has potential to result in increases in collateral damage during self defense shootings. Nine out of ten doctors surveyed prefer to keep the innocent bystanders from getting injured.

I’m also thinking of the poor innocent animals. PETA agrees they have a right to a clean humane one shot instant kill when being hunted. But with the skill of hunters slowly eroding due to the unjustifiable cost of practice rounds, they will be more likely to merely wound their intended prey, leaving them to die slowly and painfully.

Now an important point is that both cases underscore the right to personal protection. Contraception in the form of a barrier such as a condom protects against unwanted sexually transmitted diseases as well as pregnancy- most of the time. Unfortunately, even if you can convince the rapist to use a condom, there’s still the rape part.. NOW agrees properly loaded and available firearm also protects against unwanted sexually transmitted diseases in the case of attempted rape, but is more efficient in that the rape itself is prevented. That’s a good thing. And the bad guy gets to have his potential to rape again prevented should the firearm be used towards the offending area…

There are other economic impacts as well. Katherine Sebelius, secretary of health and human services recently pointed out that preventing a baby more than makes up for the cost of taking care of that baby. Indeed, preventing a violent criminal from going to jail is much more economically efficient than taking care of that murderer for life, even with the high cost of ammo. But of course, should the ammo be provided free by the government, the widespread use of defensive rounds will more than make up for the cost through the decrease in prison overcrowding. And of course that is more humane to the less violent felons who will have better accommodations and smaller classes which train them to reintegrate into society in meaningful ways and to vote Democrat.

Prevention of crime will also rise for all the poor and disenfranchised in the inner cities who have to pay a premium for ammo. It is truly racist that ammunition costs more in the areas where it is needed the most. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting the Reverend Jackson and he’s all in. The redistribution of ammunition from the rich 1% to the needy 99% is truly the highest form of social justice. If ghetto dwellers were able to afford ammo, the criminals would move away to other countries where they stand a better chance of perpetrating their crimes without the annoyance of risking injury. Like England.

Obviously, more ammunition available means more workers to manufacture it. People have to make the ammo. That translates into more green jobs. Recycling will increase for the brass that goes into the shell casings, so it is a green endeavor that will save the planet and decrease greenhouse gasses since no coal is used in the manufacturing process. Think Greenpeace.

So I think we can clearly see the multiple societal benefits from social justice, eliminating the debt crisis, all the way to saving the planet from one simple government program, and the full spectrum of special interest groups who will be grateful for your courage to lead in this area. I thank you for your agreement and hope to see the “Heaven on Earth through ballistic redistribution” bill passed real soon.


Right-Wing Bastards Need to Be Silenced for Hate Speech

By Dr. Christopher Flappitydo, Institute for Diversity & Tolerance & Multiculturalism & Compassion & Inclusiveness

A recent spate of offensive hate speech spewed forth by right wing-pontificators has led to a never-ending litany of over-the-top racist, sexist, homophobic language. And it is high-time that moderate progressives do something about it!

The Koch brother-funded tea party terrorists behind the latest reactionary veer towards incivility have jettisoned the “new tone,” as decreed after Sarah Palin caused the tragic Gabby Giffords shooting.

We are fast approaching the situation when right-wing violence could explode at any time, all because a few conservative pundits have gone on a media shooting spree at our brave progressives fighting for the public good.

Here is what happened, for those who missed out on our “Rush to Silence” campaign:

  • The president suffered a painful “vetting” of his past, including facing uncomfortable questions about his college background and his association with so-called “radicals.”
  • A courageous young woman was subjected to a media witch hunt and was rhetorically set on fire – all for bringing to our attention the dire need for America’s youth to have access to free condoms.
  • Rush Limbaugh heatedly denied our allegations that he has a gay lover, which we found bigoted against homosexuals.

IDTMCI condemns the hate speech of fat, drug-addicted blowhards like Rush Limbaugh and the peddler of lies Andrew Breitbart, may he rest in the Stygian wasteland of Hades!

Right-wingers have always gotten away with unfounded smears of caring, compassionate people. The human wreckage caused by the right’s endless hate campaign has been overwhelming. Innocent Democrat victims abound with horror stories of public crucification by conservative pundits on television and radio. We at IDTMCI have received an outpouring of public outcry over the years begging for somebody, anybody, to put an end to this madness.

Unfortunately, the hate will only stop when the right is silenced.

Nothing has demonstrated the need for the hard right to be muzzled like its behavior over the last few weeks. We moderate progressives rested easier after the timely death of Mr. Breitbart, which we all thought would provide us with a moment’s rest. Unfortunately, the heirs to his site’s legacy from all over the Interweb have picked up right where the despicable hate merchant left off, and subsequently embarked on a crusade to “vet” America’s first historic black president.

We now grieve for President Obama, who is being subjected to all sorts of uncomfortable questions about his college days and his past associations. These are irrelevant. The man is black – hello! That means off-limits. Questioning is a no-no. All political opposition or vetting of President Obama is inherently racist. And I dare conservatives to prove otherwise.

And then we have the case of Ms. Sandra Fluck, who embarked on a brave quest to make sure no college man’s penis goes unsheathed. Free rubbers should be a right of passage for any muscular and virile young man: blue, green, glow-in-the-dark – what-have-you. That anyone would oppose such a noble missionary as Ms. Fluck shows the sickness of the right. For a right-wing talk show host to claim the woman is akin to a “slut” and a “prostitute” just because she wants college girls to have their sexual escapades financed by the government is beyond the pale.

The only sluts around here are you Koch brother-funded tea party prostitutes who will sell your astro-turfed souls to Satan just to turn a buck.

Then we have talk radio host Rush Limbaugh, who vehemently denied that the reason he is for gender-biased marriage is that he secretly had a gay lover name Fredo who lotions him up every night. Everyone knows that right-wingers who oppose gay marriage are secretly gay themselves. That’s college psychology 101, but I wouldn’t expect idiotic conservatives to understand that. Anyway, Rush Limbaugh is a homophobe for denying he has a gay lover.

The public good demands that our social discourse is entrusted only to those professionals who know how to be moderate and objective in their criticism. We cannot have bigots running around spewing unfounded charges at their political opponents just to score cheap points with impressionable people. There should only be one side to every story, as long as the other side consists of sheer hate.

The bottom line is that the right-wing bastards don’t know when to shut up. And for that reason, they should all be silenced.

The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.

Exclusive Report: America’s Economy to be Powered by Obama’s Love by 2020

In a flailing economy with soaring gas prices, many Americans are feeling the pinch at the gas pump. But help is on the way. A new GAO report concludes that the U.S. economy will be powered by Obama’s love by 2020.

Scathing criticisms of past Obama administration reports on energy policy were mainly comprised of right-wingers charging that the president was only vaguely alluding to “alternative energy,” without pointing to specifics in terms of means, efficiency, or cost.

Those partisan claims have been silenced for now. A triumphant Obama strode to the stage of a major press conference, brandishing a copy of the new report.

“This goes to show, once again,” the president said with magnificent echo, “That my opponents simply don’t know what they’re talking about. The report I hold in my hand puts to rest any doubts about the future of American energy.”

When asked about the specifics of the new policy, the president was quick to reply.

“There I was, lying on the beach in Hawaii with Michelle, and all of a sudden this Huey Lewis song comes on.  A light-bulb goes off in my head. Now there’s an idea to get America moving again!”

Other reporters were more pointed with their questioning.

Jake Taper of ABC News asked, “What specific changes to our energy policy does this entail? We’ve already heard about your plans to put windmills on every hill in the country and to line America’s houses with solar panels. There were even talks of bringing back the steam engine. How is this any different?”

“Well, Jack,” the president replied. “I am the president. And I have more than enough power in this mellifluous but rapidly aging voice of mine, not to mention the clarity of my vision, to get this country where it needs to go. Anyone else?”

“This is Deborah Kasey of Fox. Recent administration efforts to support electric cars have been disastrous, since no one wants to buy them and they cause unseen pollution due to being powered by coal-fired plants. What is different about this plan?”

“Excuse me,  what was that about that coal-fired plant thing?” the president asked for clarification.

“Coal-fired plants,” Ms. Kasey repeated. “They ultimately power electricity, and thus electric cars like the Volt.”

“Let me get this straight,” the president spoke up. “I’m supposed to believe that when I plug my electric razor into the wall-socket in the morning, the electricity probably comes from a coal plant? We’ll get someone on that problem right away… next?”

“Mike O’Donnell, MSNBC. The Republicans keep howling about ‘drill, baby, drill’ and they support the building of the Keystone pipeline. What can we do as good stewards of the earth to make sure none of that ever takes place?”

“I’m glad you asked that Mike,” the president said. “What you can do is stop driving your car. Don’t worry about being unemployed, we’ll cut you a check. Switch off your air conditioner. Heat your food with a convection oven. Only leave the television on, so you can see my speeches and press conferences.”

The press corps laughed. The president paused for a moment, seemingly staring off into the vast, dazzling horizon.

“Oh,” the president finally said after a protracted moment. “What will solve the problem of American energy in the long-run is not to have energy at all. That is where my ‘power of love’ plan comes in. If you all keep in mind that I love you, and you can feel my love radiating out from Washington, that will warm your hearts in the coldest of winter, cause you all to forget about the shallow need to turn a buck, and no longer make you want to run your air conditioners at 64 degrees in the summer time.”

The president stopped again for effect, and gave what looked like the crazy signal to someone.

“…Cause all of that is grossly unfair to people around the world who can’t do those things. Contrary to the claims of my critics, the solution isn’t to allow people around the world the freedom to develop their own energy supplies, or for us to pay for their overabundant energy reserves, it is to simply stop having energy altogether. Replace it with love. All you need is love, as the Beatles said.”

The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.

Facing the Support Group: A Post-Comatose Democrat Awakens to the Obama Administration

The creak of a door and the hallway light again spills onto my face. Curled up in a ball on the puffy plastic cot on the floor, sheets of newspaper cover my frail and shivering body.  They crinkle as I roll away from the light. Was it morning? Night? I didn’t know anymore.  All I know is I want someone to take me home.

“Mr. Carter, it’s time to get up,” said the same soothing feminine voice from yesterday. I wrapped myself in the warm timber of her words like an infant nestling in the womb. “It’s time to take your medicine and join the day, Mr. Carter. Please get up!”

I roll towards the light and raise myself up in bed, casting the paper newspaper aside.  It’s a herculean effort, with my head is still swimming in the cottony comfort of drug-induced dreams. Awkwardly, I pull myself over and throw myself onto the depressed edge of the plastic cot. Tottering, I await the woman’s touch on my shoulder, or anything to jolt me back to the real world.

“Mr. Carter, take this juice and the little red pill…” she orders me with that wonderful maternalistic tone of hers.

“What is it?” I asked curiously and coughed, though consigned to her lovely authority.


“Oh,” I answered, a bit disappointed that it wasn’t something more exotic, something that would make my problems go away. I took the pill and drank down the cool, bright, acidic orange juice. It was the most fabulous thing I’d ever tasted.

“Please put the slippers on that are by the door. The ones wrapped in clear plastic.  We have a meeting at oh-nine hundred. Don’t worry about changing your pajamas.”

“Nine o’clock?” I ask, grateful for the clue as to the time of day. “A meeting?”

“It’s a support group, really, for people like yourself. It’s right after breakfast at oh-eight hundred.”

“Is this the military? Don’t we use real time here?” I ask, recognizing the terminology from a few anti-war movies I’d watched.

“It’s not the military, but we like to think of it as restructuring people’s orientation. The change signifies that time is valuable, and so is being on time.”

“Oh,” I answer, slipping on the flip-flops she hands me. No more cold tile. Breakfast sounds terrific.

I struggle to rise, but the nice lady latches me under my right arm and helps lift me up. I collapse onto the floor. My legs are too weak. I had forgotten how to walk.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you a wheelchair,” she says kindly. I lie there fearful and frustrated, but angrily resolved to walk again. I get my first good look at the woman.  She has neatly cut reddish brown hair with highlights pulled up underneath a white nurse hat. The girl is young, surprisingly thin, and her face is full of compassion, eagerness, and a no-nonsense attitude. I was expecting a middle-aged woman full of grit and experience.

“Rachel, is it?” I ask as she leaves the room.

“Yes,” she turns and says with a smile before leaving down the hall to fetch a wheelchair. She leaves the door open, showing me trust. I like the girl already.

After a few minutes, she returns with the wheelchair and her assistant… Rex.  A well-built, dark-skinned man, he looks like he might be from the Caribbean. A dark mustache and short, nicely kept afro gives him the look of a gentle, hard-working family man.

The two mental health workers help me into the chair and wheel me down to a small dining room, made for just a handful of people. No one else is in there. A tray with toast, eggs, a pre-packaged juice, a bowl of oatmeal, and a milk carton await. I pull up and eat the food greedily while Rachel watches, even though I can’t help noticing how clean-cut and attractive the young woman is. After I finish the milk, she points to her watch with a friendly grin and takes me out of the breakfast nook.

Wheeling me into a small conference room with light blue carpeting, a semi-circle of people is already formed with several faces staring at me as I enter. A man with a white labcoat is seated, turned towards the group, and is already talking. Rachel wheels me to the end of the row and politely leaves.

“So, Jonathan, can you tell me…well, it looks like we have another guest,” the doctorly looking man with a salt-and-pepper beard says to me. “Welcome to the Democrat Support Group, number six.”

Democrat support group? What in heaven’s name is this? I study the faces of the group. A mixture of dejected men and women, all of them carrying that peculiar, unmistakable look of yuppies, which they bear with them no matter what they are wearing.

“Oh, umm… thanks?” I reply modestly.

“Can you introduce yourself, number six? If you choose, you can give your real name. But it’s not required.”

“Hi, I’m… well, number six is fine.  I just came out of a coma… I don’t know how long ago. And the next thing I know it, I’m here.”

“Oh, really?” the doctor asks. “So you don’t have any idea why you’re here, and you don’t believe you have any responsibility for it, either. I’m afraid we’re not off to a flying start, number six.”

All the other group members look at me disapprovingly.

“Sarah, can you tell number six why you’re here?”

“Well, I was a young student fresh out of grad school. I’d just finished my thesis on the mating habits of bonobos and applications to human society. Along comes this clean, articulate black man talking about hope and change. I’m thinking – I want change! Who doesn’t want change? And hope? I’m all for that! So I voted for the guy. Three years of unemployment later, and student loans out the nose, here I am.”

“So, Sarah, what did you learn?” the doctor prodded.

“Just because someone promises you something nice, that doesn’t mean you have to believe them.”

“That’s right, Sarah. Very good!”

The doctor stood up and handed her a golden slip of paper. The girl looked very pleased.

“Excuse me, doctor, what are those?” I piped up.

“Why, those are points that signify time that can be spent in the courtyard or the games room. Get enough of those and you earn a day pass. Earn enough and you get a weekend supervised pass. Even more, and you can get an unsupervised pass. Finally, you can get enough to request discharge. Think of it as your ticket to freedom.”

“Oh,” I answer uncomprehendingly.

“Jonathan, how about you?” the doctor turned to the right-hand side of the semi-circle. A baby-faced man with dark hair and thick glasses turned to the doctor. “Why are you here?”

“Uh… uh… I had a job working in the…the… real estate business, and was helping poor people take l-l-l-loans through F-f-f-fannie Mae and Fr…”

“Freddie Mac,” I answered for him.

“Shhhhh!!” everyone turned towards me and chided me disapprovingly.

“And… then people st-t-t-tarted telling me they c-c-c… couldn’t pay their bills anymore,” the man got out and then sighed heavily.  “I realized what I was doing was not c-c-c-compassionate… it was fraud.”

“Very good!” the doctor said. “So what did you learn?”

“The D-d-d-democrats were using me and using poor people.”

“That’s right!” the doctor explained and walked over to hand out another golden slip.

“Sorry to ask, doctor,” I interjected. “What is your name?”

“My name?” the doctor replied. “It’s Dr. Paul Alethia.”

“Doctor,” I asked. “This little session is all well and good, but I’m afraid this isn’t the group for me. You see, I’m fine being a Democrat.”

“Oh, so you are fine with President Obama being the leader of your party?”

“President Obama? I don’t know who you are talking about.  Our current president is Bushhh — ”

All of a sudden, the image from the newspaper flashed in front of my eyes. It was Bush, except different. Then it was that black man, again, for a split second. No, again it was Bush.

Everyone looked at me in shock.

“Number six, I’m afraid we are going to have to arrange a special appointment. I’d like to see you on the couch later on today.”

Author’s note: This is the third installment of a five-part series. The first, “Ravings of a Lunatic: A Post-Comatose Democrat Awakens to the Obama Administration,” can be read here. The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.

Ramblings of a Lunatic: A Post-Comatose Democrat Awakens to the Obama Administration

Alone. A lonely stream of white light shines barren through an iron-grilled window onto the cold tiled floor. Dust particles whirl in the illuminated vapor. The black shadow lines cross the floor’s checkered pattern, forming a clashing array of black and white. I lean back, shoulder blades touching two sides of the wall, and rest in the corner. The bones in my rear ache. The ground is hard and flat and stretches forth to a gray-padded door with a slot in the center.

The walls are padded too. A weird kind of puffiness. Can’t move my arms. What a miserable hellish place.

How did I get here? A hospital. Those two doctors…the bearded bastard sent me here. Why? Some yelling, anger, fury – yes, and why not? There was a war on! The traitor Bush…it was Bush, right? He did this! It’s his fault…for the wars, for that damned Patriot Act, for me being here! He did this to me. The dictator sent me here.

Was this a political prison? Stalin is said to have used psychiatric wards to punish and silence dissidents, but those are just right-wing  rumors. Maybe this was some kind of payback for dissent? I wouldn’t put it past him. That man had no intention of leaving since the day he took office. He stole the election, after all. He stole the election!

Must get out of this…strait jacket…inform all my friends. Damn, it’s too tight. These walls, all around me, keeping me in, silencing me. The world has to know!  We live in a police state and the world has to know!

What did I say? Maybe one of my friends ratted me out. Was it Ray or was it Laura? The faculty lounge. We were talking about the spring conference. We all hated Bush… I think. Not sure about Ray, he never said enough hateful things about the man. He was always talking some nonsense about keeping an open mind. Ray even once condemned Hussein as a genocidal maniac. It had to be him! He had to be the mole!

Or was it Laura? No, she really detested Bush, and all Republicans for that matter. My kind of woman. I remember one time a student tried to defend Bush at a colloquium and she really let him have it. Think the guy eventually left the program. A conservative – good riddance. No, it had to be Ray.

Footsteps. Somewhere in the hallway. A jingle of…keys, or something.  Something is being slid through the door.


Silence. All noise stops.

“Wait, don’t leave me here!”

Click and the sharp-edged sound of a radio or walkie-talkie or something.

“Yo, doc, seems like number six is awake. Yelling… yeah. Maybe needs another shot or something to calm him down. You’ll send the nurse? Got it.”

“Hey, don’t leave me here,” I can’t help but yell again. “Talk to me. Where am I? I won’t hurt you. I have a strait-jacket on for godsake!”

“Alright, man. Hold on.”

More clanging of keys. The door’s unlocked. It creaks open, throwing a bright shard of light right into my eyes. It hurts. I try to cover my eyes, but my arms can’t go above mid-chest.

“Here, number six,” the deep baritone voice comes at me through a huge shadow in the doorway. “Be cool and I’ll let you eat. Nurse will be here in a minute.  Maybe we’ll let you out of that thing. You cool?”

“Yeah, I’ll take it easy,” I reply.

The big man set a tray on the floor. The salty waft of canned chicken soup shoots up my nostrils. My stomach wretches.

“You might have a little nausea,” the guy said. “You’re on a liquid diet for now.”

“What is going on? Oh, my head feels so heavy. This is really confusing,” I make out.

“Yeah, I feel you man,” the man said compassionately. “Here, I’ll leave you the newspaper I’m done with. Maybe that’ll help you figure things out.”

The big man walked outside and grabbed an old-time paper newspaper off his cart and tossed it on the floor. It sounded with a thud.

“There you go,” he said. “Enjoy.”

“Oh… thanks,” I say back, weakly.

“Rex, are you giving things to the patients again?” a pleasant feminine voice falls upon my ears. It is mellow and smooth, soothing me instantly.

“Just a newspaper, Nurse Rachel.”

“Alright, well not too much harm there. Help me get this strait jacket off of Mr. Carter, and I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Yes, mam.”

Two shadowy figures approach me through the light until they are instantaneously upon me. Human contact.  In a few moments, I wriggle out of the heavy sleeves and start to push myself up from the hard floor. The coolness of the tile impresses upon my palms. This whole place is cold.

“Now, just wait here in the corner, and we’ll leave now,” the nurse said lightly. “We will check back on you later.  Get something to eat and lie down on the cot a bit.”

“Alright,” I say meekly.

And just as quickly as they arrived, the two strangers are suddenly gone. Forget the food, I want the newspaper.

I try again to get up to walk over to the paper, but then realize my legs can’t move. It’s stunning. I try over and over, shake my legs, cajole them to move.  They feel like they are asleep. Must have been sitting on the floor too long.

I crawl with exhausting effort over to the food tray and snatch up the newspaper. The paper feels so good between my fingers, like the hard reality of truth.

I roll myself over onto the low plastic cot and situate myself after a tremendous struggle. I lift the paper up to the light, and flip it over until I get the above-the-fold. Where’s the date?

March 3rd, 2012.

The words hit me like a ball peen hammer crashing into my face. I blink hard. The print is still there: March 3rd, 2012.

I swallow hard and vaguely remember the words of the hospital orderly. Ten years. Ten years!  It hadn’t sunk in until now.  The college faculty lounge, blacking out, grading papers, going home to my Cocker spaniel Brock… was I married?

What about the war?

I pull down the paper and start scanning. Lead story: President Obama announces…

President Obama? I scan the pages and there is a photograph of a handsome gentleman waving… is he black? I mean, African-American?

…withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan by 2014.  The president will deliver on his promise to end the wars overseas…

By 2014? The wars are still on? That would mean…

…after pulling troops completely out of Iraq in December 2011.  The military campaign in Libya ended successfully after the dictator Moammar Qaddafi was deposed and killed…

Let me see… Bush’s term was up in February 2009? That means…

…but the president still has a host of foreign policy challenges.  After Egypt erupted in rioting during the Arab Spring…

Libya? What are we doing in Libya? Why is this president overthrowing foreign heads of state? That’s the same reason Bush went into Iraq…

… President Obama supported the people’s desire to remove the despotic Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak…

What is the Arab Spring? Did our president support it?

…but elections bringing to power the Muslim Brotherhood and hardline conservative Islamist groups in national elections…

Wait? We supported the removal of the Egyptian president?  And the groups coming to power could be hardline conservatives?

…throw into doubt whether the president will be able to successfully bring to a close all of his foreign policy challenges in just one term…

Hold on.  Is the paper supporting this man’s foreign policy?  Didn’t he take us into foreign wars, and as the orderly said, voted for the Patriot Act?  This president is a Democrat? No, I won’t believe it.

I stare at the photograph. For a brief flash, I see President Bush smiling at me, waving in that godawful jocular Texan manner…

No, this had to be Bush. I put the paper down and rub my eye sockets with my thumb and forefinger until pain shoots through my optic nerves.

I bring the paper up again. Another flash, this time like lightning.  It’s President Bush… no, it’s President Obama. I blink hard. Twice. One image pops into place before my eyes. It’s static, dreadful.

It’s President Bush, except… black.

Author’s note: This is the second installment of a multi-part series. The first, “Welcome to My Nightmare: A Post-Comatose Democrat Awakens to the Obama Administration,” can be read here. The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.

Welcome to My Nightmare: A Post-Comatose Democrat Awakens to the Obama Administration

Awake. A halo of bright white light streams into my eyes. All is blurry as my pupils painfully dilate to take in my unfamiliar surroundings. A lamp, some kind of lamp, swings slowly above me. At first, out of focus, but the blurred edges are becoming clearer now. I feel a cold, hard mattress underneath me. It’s crinkly plastic and slightly inclined. Laying on top of me is a ridged light blue blanket resting above a crisp white sheet. I grasp it with my hands. It’s real.

Where am I?

The musty acrid chemical smell and the cream decor give the place an institutional aura. Woozy, senses flooded by the light, I feel like vomiting.  I wrap my hand around the chill steel of a guard rail and know this must be some kind of hospital.

How did I get here? The last thing I remember is the fall. Looking up, there was Ray and Laura, standing over me, shaking me, shouting something unintelligible.

Fade to black.

It was the college faculty lounge. I know that smooth leather-backed couch and low pine-wood coffee table, scattered with various lightly read journals. We were having…jasmine-scented tea, so warm, so pleasant. Suddenly, I recognize my throat is parched. This is a hospital. Is there a nurse?

Reaching down, some kind of button. Hit it. Need water.

What day is it? The last I recall, there’s a conference coming up. A spring conference for social anthropologists. Is that what we were discussing when I passed out?

No, it was some bit of political gossip – the war. My god, the war!

I tapped the call button in earnest, frantically trying to reach someone. The sound of a trashbag liner being ruffled and a scraping noise. Someone else was already in the room.

“Hello? Sir?” I gasped, my throat muscles barely responding.

“Mr. Carter! Why, I can’t believe you’re awake! This is amazing!” said the pleasant-sounding man, who was apparently Nigerian from his accent and his wonderfully dark complexion. “Let me get the doc!”

“Mr. Carter? Is that my name? No, no!” I cried. “You wait right here. Now before I passed out, there was this news – some kind of bill. This Patriot… Act. Do you know of what I speak?”

My pulse was pounding. I felt light-headed and mere moments away from passing into unconsciousness again. I reached around desperately for something to be sick into, but there was nothing readily at hand.

“Oh, sure,” the man said. “Heard about it on the news just the other day. The president signed it.”

“What?!” I yelled, and couldn’t believe it. “Do you know what this means? Do you know what this means? We are officially living in a police state. This president – he must be impeached. Or worse! Let me out of this bed. Let me out of this bed!”

“Calm down, Mr. Carter,” the man said while coming over to me. He was tall and strapping, wearing a blue v-neck scrub. “You’ll overdo it again and fall right out of bed. Let me get the doctor…”

“No!” I yelled weakly and grasped him by his short sleeve shirt as he leaned over me. “No, you must… tell me… the wars? The wars are still being fought, right? All those innocent people! Tell me the wars are over!?”

“No, Mr. Carter. I’m sorry, but the wars are not over. In fact, the president just launched another war, this time without even asking for permission.”

“That bastard!” I choked out. I couldn’t believe it. The man was pure evil. He must be stopped! We have a dictator as president, and what are we going to do about it? I suddenly felt faint.

“Sir, calm down. A doctor is on the way. You will be feeling better in no time.”

“But, tell me some good news,” I pleaded desperately. “Please tell me there is good news…”

“Well, to be honest with you,” the dark man said thoughtfully, looking down at me with the soulful whites of his eyes. “The economy is not very good, either. Unemployment is around ten percent, maybe higher. Lucky to have this job as an orderly. Then again, I’m an accountant by trade…”

“Oh, you’re educated?” I asked politely, but then suddenly felt a tinge of guilt. “Tell me, what are we going to do about this man, this president? He’s completely out-of-control!  I’m so angry I want to explode.  Those goddam Republicans…”

The man gave me a look of shock and ceased folding the transparent cotton sheet, and laid it gently on the armchair next to the bedside table.  Suddenly, an expression of understanding passed over his face.

“But, sir, you don’t know, do you? The president is a Democrat,” he said gently.  “You’ve been in a coma for ten years.  We elected the first black president…”

“No!” I yelled. “Nooo! Please, please tell me this is some kind of joke. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it!  He is a nice guy, right? Kind and just? Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me this isn’t true!!”

I could barely contain myself. I reached out for anything I could grab, and snagged the man’s shirt around the chest. He stepped back, greatly offended.  Just then, two doctors in white lab coats burst into the room.

“Sorry, we were prepping for surgery, and the doctor on call got delayed. What is going on here? Oh, Mr. Carter has returned from his coma!”

“Yes, but I am afraid he is very hostile right now,” the Nigerian man said. “It looks like he might be a threat to himself and others.  Look, he grabbed my shirt and nearly tore it clean off!”

“It appears that the man is suffering from a dysphoric rage, brought about by his lack of situational awareness, exacerbated by acute disruption of the hippocampus…”

“Doc,” the orderly chimed in. “I don’t know what that means. But this man is crazy.”

“Dr. Carlson, run a mental health screen, neuro-battery, check vital signs, the works,” a bearded  doctor said to a man with wire-rimmed glasses as they left the room.  And then he stopped briefly before walking on. “Oh, and transfer him to the Psych Ward for observation. Not sure if we can trust this man’s judgment.”

“No, it can’t be true! Don’t take me away!” I yelled and couldn’t stop myself from yelling again. “Not a Democrat!”

As I struggled vainly to resist, two more men entered the room, a young clean-cut man and a portly tanned gentleman bearing a strait jacket.

Kicking furiously, I could only remember the evil warmonger who had made my life a living nightmare, and then suddenly felt a soothing warmth come over me contemplating the wonderful African-American president who had followed him…

Or was that the Haldol?

The wars! The secrecy! The lies! Nothing has changed?

Where was I?

Oh, the war!

Maybe it was better this way, I thought as the man slipped on the strait jacket…

Author’s note: The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.

President Obama Declares War on Eastasia

“We’ve always been at war with Eastasia,” President Obama stammered during his prime-time address, dashing away a bead of sweat from his brow. “I don’t see why everyone’s getting so wee-weed up.”

Such began Obama’s defense of his wartime record before a hostile townhall forum packed with far-left groups congregated to mark Compassion Week.  The crowd was largely comprised of staunch supporters of his 2008 campaign and included anti-war groups highly critical of the prior administration’s belligerent policies. Unexpected shouts of “no more war!” had left the president frazzled.

President Obama has come under fire recently by left-wing extremists for his continuation of extraordinary rendition, indefinite prisoner detainment, domestic surveillance, punishment of whistleblowers, failure to end wars on the promised timeline, and leading the country into several undeclared wars against foreign nations. Critics bellowed that the president failed to live up to his campaign promise to provide hope and change to a desperate people after the departure of the bloodthirsty, tyrannical warmonger Bush. Some fringe leftists even claimed that the president was actually worse in some ways than his despised predecessor by signing on to a bill that could apply indefinite detention to Americans. The president had even targeted a citizen for assassination.

“Mike Thomas, Code Pinko,”said a man in a Death of a President movie T-shirt, who stood up while grasping a microphone. “Could you explain to us what it was like winning the Nobel Peace Prize?” he asked and began breathing heavily into the mic. “It must have been really exciting.”

“Thank you… Mike, is it?” the president clarified, flashing a toothy grin. “It was definitely exciting. And it was my honor to carry on the legacy of former Nobel Peace Prize winners, like Mikhail Gorbachev and Yasser Arafat.”

The crowd reacted to the president’s response with tepid applause.

“Rebecca Weston, Moveover.org,” a bespectacled girl of slightly older than college age rose to address the president. “Can you tell us what prompted you to unilaterally disarm up to 80% of our nuclear weapons stockpile? And do you think this good faith effort will lead other nations to give up nuclear arms altogether?”

“Yes, Rebecca, I definitely think a day will come when nuclear weapons will become a thing of the past, an ugly relic of a bygone age,” the president declared boldly as he moved to the front of the stage. “And it is my inclination to believe our good friends Russia, China, and hopefully someday, Iran, will do the same.”

Scattered applause arose in the back of the auditorium, stirring the people to life.  Murmurs could be heard cascading across the audience.

“Jill Brookings, Q.U.E.S.T.I.O.N. War,” an attractive lady in a turtleneck sweater announced herself. “Do you think we’ll see the end of war itself in our lifetimes?”

“I believe so, Jill, I believe so,” Obama spoke gently, while looking slightly upward at the rafters. “But getting there will take tremendous courage and sacrifice. That is why I decided to wage war against Eastasia. So that we may have peace.”

And with that the auditorium lit up in raucous applause, many participants folding up their anti-war protest signs and placing them under their chairs.

“Let me say for the record that I am passionately anti-war and that under a future Obama administration, you can look forward to the wars overseas being brought to a close.  The Arab Spring is a blossoming democratic movement now sweeping over Eurasia, leading to the promise of peace and the hope of a new dawn. We are moving in the direction of a bright, wondrous age where our children no longer have to live with the fear of nuclear annihilation or the cataclysmic effects of manmade climate change. Under an Obama administration, we will see peace and shared prosperity. But only if you make it happen. Only if you get out and vote for realizing change in 2012. Because this is the year we complete the fundamental transformation of America. This is the year we finish the job we started!”

The once-hostile crowd sprang to its feet and exploded into a torrent of furious clamor. Shouts of “four more years! four more years!” poured forth from the amorphous assemblage of flailing arms, contorted faces, and waving colors. The electric energy permeating the mob re-charged the president, as he basked in the adoration of his room. After all, these were his people. And he had once again won them over.

Author’s note: The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.

Michelle Obama and DHS Join Forces: “Snack Watch” Soon to Hit School Lunch Cafeterias

The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) and Michelle Obama have joined forced to promote an aggressive new school nutrition campaign touted as a cross between “If You See Something, Say Something” and “Let’s Move!”  Dubbed “Snack Watch”  by the administration, the program is intended to eliminate school-age obesity by rewarding children who snitch on their junk food-scarfing classmates.

The $432 billion program was unveiled at a joint press conference held by Michelle Obama and Janet Napolitano before a horde of thrilled young people, as well as loyal teacher and food service union workers.

Dazzling in a yellow sundress with green polkadots, Michelle Obama arrived at Woodrow Wilson Elementary School in Greenwich, Connecticut looking like a rock star. Shortly behind her, wearing a purple pantsuit with broad lapels, strode Janet Napolitano, who had arrived in a black BMW encircled by a half-dozen Secret Service agents clad in dark sunglasses.

While the First Lady was all smiles as throngs of cheery fourth graders delightedly squealed and greeted her warmly, the Department of Homeland Security chief was all business.  On her way up the central walkway, flanked on each side by small children, Ms. Napolitano stopped dead in her tracks.  Slowly pulling off her sunglasses, she turned slightly to her right. Then, with the velocity of a cobra, she ripped a chocolate Quik box from the clutches of a stunned child.  She dropped the flavored beverage in front of her and smashed it with her low-heeled boot. Ms. Napolitano and the Secret Service detail continued walking into the school.

Once inside the elementary school, the two ambassadors for the Snack Watch program took to a blue raised stage in a school gymnasium. The towering, chiseled Ms. Obama and the stocky Ms. Napolitano cut a striking pair to deliver a message on nutrition and physical fitness.  The makeshift auditorium rocked with applause as the school principal Ms. Crabtree announced the two famous visitors.

“How is everybody feeling today?” Ms. Obama shouted, grasping the microphone. The children screamed an enthusiastic response.

“We’re here to talk to you about a very vital issue, one very important to the future of the country,” Ms. Napolitano said as the children took their seats.  The gymnasium became quiet.

“That’s right!” Ms. Obama echoed cheerfully.

“Everyone here agrees it is good to be healthy, right?” Ms. Napolitano addressed the crowd.  Scattered applause provided her with the correct answer.

“Then what we want for you children to do is keep an eye out for your buddies to see if they’re eating unhealthy snacks,” Ms. Obama said sweetly. “If someone is eating a cookie, a brownie, or is drinking soda, I want you to tell an authority figure — a teacher or the principal — before that child hurts herself or others.”

“If you see something, say something,” Napolitano chimed in. “And if you are afraid to go to your teachers, you can always log into the Snack Watch website and rat — I mean, inform us of them there.  Just tell us the child’s name, school, and the name of the naughty snack, and we will do our best to track him down and educate him.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

“And it wouldn’t hurt to start getting into the habit of keeping a log on what your parents eat,” continued Napolitano.  “Because of Obamacare, no longer is your body and your health only your business, it’s everybody’s business.”

“Hoorah!” Ms. Obama cheered with a beaming smile.

The audience remained quiet, still digesting what was being said to them.

“Also, and this should make the food service workers happy, we are banning sack lunches,” said Ms. Obama.

“There is no way to tell if the nutritional standards of children will be met consistently unless we take control,” Ms. Napolitano expanded. “So in the name of equality, the U.S. government will be assuming responsibility for providing uniform school lunches across the country.  You’re welcome.  No longer will there be a disparity between schools – some schoolchildren getting pizza four times a month and others forced to eat sloppy joe’s.  Now, there will equally healthy food for all.”

“I believe you will love Tofu Tuesdays!” Ms. Obama added.

“What I want all of you to do now is assemble on the soccer field for group exercises,” Ms. Napolitano said authoritatively.  “If we are to be good little troopers, we have to be in outstanding shape.  Someday soon, we will have enough strong, happy children to make a virtual army for the cause of healthy food.”

“That’s right,” said the First Lady. “I’ve even talked to real U.S. soldiers about eating their broccoli. I think I can get you all to do it.  Now let’s move!”

The gymnasium was dismissed and the children scrambled to assemble on the field behind the school for physical training exercises.  About halfway through doing a set of fifty jumping jacks, Michelle Obama and DHS secretary Napolitano, winded and quite satisfied, left the completion of the exercises to the gym coaches.

Reportedly, their convoy was spotted turning into a drivethrough at McDonald’s, but that is presumably because the First Lady wanted to check up on the fast food chain’s new Happy Meal standards.

Author’s note: The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.

Obama Unveils Campaign 2012 Slogan: “We’re Not Socialists”

The president’s bid for re-election kicked off in high style at a posh corporate fundraiser at the Ritz Carlton convention center in New York, minutes away from the Wall Street debauchery that spawned the inspiring Occupy movement. In attendance were top executives from each corner of the corporate world, representing former big backers from his uplifting 2008 campaign: Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan Chase, and Bank of America.

But a sense of gloom was suspended in the air as the president went over his powerpoint presentation on why he should be elected again. By his side was Press Secretary Jay Carney to assist him with fielding questions.

“You see this right here?” the president asked rhetorically. “This here is money. You take that times government and multiply by hope and that equals profit.”

Jay Carney nodded in agreement. “And that’s not just any profit,” he chimed in. “That’s unprecedented, never-before-seen-in-world-history, trillion-dollar boondoggle profit.”

“Just pitch me an idea,” the president picked up. “Right here and right now. Nothing’s too crazy — shoot the moon.”

A moment of silence filled the room before it was finally broken by a hollow voice in the back.

“What is that Jack?” Jay Carney asked to make sure he heard the man right. “Plant algae?”

“Sure, sure,” the president said, scratching his head. “That green stuff on the pond when you’re out playing golf. Hmm, seems like you could turn that gunk into fuel, run your golf cart on it. Bam! $150 billion grant from the EPA. It’s just that easy.”

A pair of executives gave each other a high five and each produced a silver pen to write the campaign a check. Others remained dubious.

“Yes, Mr. Dundleberg,” Jay Carney perked up with characteristic uptalk. “You’re concerned about government picking winners and losers? I’ll let the president handle that one.”

“Well, it’s like this,” Obama began. “If the Republican Party wins, you’re automatically a loser. They’ve got those tea baggers all wee-weed up about limited government, private property, The Constitution, stuff we all here could do without. If you pick the Democrat Party, we might pick you. We might not. It depends on what you do for us.”

“But isn’t that a bit like that line about selling us the rope to hang us with?” a corporate executive in a gray pin-striped suit objected. “I think it was that communist guy Leonard who said that.”

“No, no,” the president instantly retorted. “I have no idea what you are talking about. But if you have an idea for a new kind of rope, we’d be happy to fund it.”

“I’m going to be frank,” a white-bearded man in a double-breasted suit spoke up. “The word on the street is that you guys are… you know… socialists.”

Out of the blue, the president and his press secretary burst into a fit of raging laughter. After several minutes of gregarious, red-faced histrionics, slapping their knees forcefully and only taking breaks for sips of water, occasionally spluttering the room with demonstrative sprays, they eventually settled down into a moaning, semi-reserved chuckle in the confines of that deadly silent conference room where everyone else felt extremely awkward.

“Jay, would you like to take this one?” the president spoke with a wry smile.

“Bob,” Carney began. “If I might call you Bob. What would you say if I called you a comic book hero, say, The Incredible Hulk, right here and right now?” The press secretary said and paused for effect.

“Why, you’d say I were crazy. You’d respond that you didn’t claim that you were The Incredible Hulk, you aren’t aware that you’re The Incredible Hulk, and therefore, you can’t possibly be The Incredible Hulk. It’s like that with socialists. Unless someone declares that he’s a socialist, then he’s not a socialist. I hope that is the end of that.”

The executives just stared at the young, shaggy haired man with the funny glasses without moving. All eyes were on the president.

“If that’s not enough to ease your concerns, I will completely take that issue off the table for you. We have been saving this announcement, but since you are all such valuable members of our re-election team, I have decided to give you the inside scoop on our campaign slogan in 2012: “We’re Not Socialists.”

“Now don’t you all feel silly?” Jay Carney said with a smirk.

Smiles returned to the faces of the corporate contributors and the president had once again won an important coalition over to his side.

“If you’ll excuse me,” the president said hastily, “I’ve got an important meeting with some public sector unions before giving a briefing to some leaders of the Occupy movement. If you make your contributions out to my SuperPAC ‘Obama is Not a Socialist 2012’, I’ll be much obliged. But you didn’t hear that from me. Thank you, gentlemen.”

Author’s note: The above is satire. ,It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac.

Batboy Named Algae Czar

DISTRICT OF CRIMINALS — Fresh off blowing hot air at the press about the dire need to move U.S. energy dependence from oil to algae, President Barack “Downgrade” Obama today took daring steps, naming Batboy as the nation’s first Algae Czar.

In his first official decree, Batboy, who has lived openly in public for 27 years as Congresscriminal Henry Waxman from California, announced the president will issue an executive order later today to create the Dental Algae Reclamation Project, to be funded by confiscated tax returns of the 1%.

“Never before in our history has it been more important to explore alternative energy, what with vast deposits of natural gas that must remain in the earth in order to hasten the prophecy of Atlas Shruggedand the successful blocking of the Keystone XL pipeline to appease environmentalist voters in time for the 2012 election,” said WaxmanBatboy, who will continue to serve in Congress, since he doesn’t do anything there in the first place except try to take over the Internet so he can increase his bandwidth for viewing YouPorn videos of himself with The Wicked Witch of Congress.

The Dental Algae Reclamation Project will mandate that a lottery choose annual dental visits for all Americans, for the scraping of algae from their teeth. WaxmanBatboy said he and the 99% of Occupy Wall Street will be the first in line because they’ve “been storing enough algae in our mouths to fuel the nation for centuries,” WaxmanBatboy said.
In other news, the Downgrade administration will also empanel a commission to study the efficacy of renewing the horse and buggy as the dominant mode of American transportation, how well fat liposuctioned from Michael Moore could provide fuel for gas lamps in 100 million American homes, and whether Obama darling and failed solar energy company Soyndra can use a new $535 million loan guarantee to convert the dead into food to offset the rising cost of grocery bills.
Solyndra Green is people!

President Obama Declares Right Not to Work Act

It was a bright, joyous, sunshiny day in the nation’s capital.  The bluebirds were chirping melodically.  The immaculately kempt White House lawn smelled of the greenest spring, as the mid-day warmth stirred the fragrant wafting scent of moist grass clippings.  Seated in impossibly straight rows of little white folding chairs were throngs of adoring admirers decked out in their best Sunday attire. Impeccably well-groomed ladies, draped in flowing knee-length sun dresses, fanned themselves patiently while intermittently swatting the wayward gnat.

President Obama entered the courtyard.  A hush even quieter than a church congregation in silent prayer befell the crowd, which was largely made up of establishment dignitaries, their lovely wives, and the scribbling Washington press corps.

“Today, we mark a historic moment,” the president began with his loftiest of lofty voices, his head slightly upcocked as if he were drawing his words straight from the heavens. One instantly sensed the drama of the moment by his overleaping of any and all introductions.  The god-echo was gloriously reverberating off the veranda and the White House barriers, recently erected, lined with barbwire and electrified, to frustrate the designs of the sprawling occupiers.  There was a safety and a comfort within the confines of that idyllic tableau; an unimpeachable sense that no one could interpose an ugly sense of reality upon them. It was cozy, nestled and warm, like the pink uterine walls of an expectant mother. The pater familias was speaking.

“One that will influence future generations of Americans. One that rivals the significance of, and yet is superior to, the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, The Constitution, the Emancipation Proclamation, and all declarations to have come before combined.  As President of the United States, I hereby decree — The Right Not to Work Act.”

The crowd sat in dazzled amazement. Here was a revolutionary idea for the ages!  The right not to work… why hadn’t anyone thought of it before?

“For eons, men and women have been held in servitude to their masters, toiling away under the oppressive regime known as ‘work.’  Capitalist enslavers, uh… I mean corporations, have cynically used ‘work’ to blackmail workers into laboring for a pittance.  They have exploited them and paid them off with fancy cars, houses, big screen TVs, mobile phones and the like… mere materialistic trifles!  But no longer will citizens be forced to sell their souls for mere ‘stuff.’  This day, all are free! No more work unless you want to! From each according to his ability to each according to his needs. Free at last! Free at last! Thank god almighty, free at last!”

All were stunned. The jaw of the cameraman dropped. Unexpectedly, he reached into his pocket, deftly withdrew a Pall Mall cigarette, and walked off to have a smoke.

“Thus, let this act be decreed and observed by all. But before the American people get too excited, I want to talk to them about the sobering subject of duty and responsibility. Since work has been abolished, an act for which all citizens should be eternally grateful, I must announce compendium legislation, which is immediately to become law by executive order.”

Men shifted in their chairs uncomfortably, leaning forward to catch the drops of honey falling from the president’s lips.

“Being that an economy cannot run completely on voluntary labor, lest there be chaos and mass shortages, I hereby decree the National Mandatory Service Act.  Citizens have a responsibility to their community and their government, and although no one can be asked to work for the state in order to pay for the lavish benefits we have bestowed upon you, it is only fair that we instate national mandatory service in order to maintain our precious rights and freedoms.”

No one stirred.  All were trying to make sense of the simultaneous decrees and sat for a protracted moment mulling the president’s words.

Suddenly, from the back of the assembly, a slow clap began to ascend, drawing others in before rising to a fevered pitch.  Clusters of men stood up, grasping their wives by the hand to greet the president’s good news.  The audience heightened their boisterous ovation with shouts of “hurrah” and “hail to dear leader!” Applause rolled for nearly twenty minutes before dwindling to a steady hollow clap, as the crowd had furtively trickled out of the courtyard. The president was off to Hawaii to play golf.

The White House garden was now a disheveled mess of bestrewn seats, clear plastic cups littered on the lawn, and far-flung cigarette butts.  As the lawnkeepers leaned against the barricades, smoking and chatting, a Secret Service agent walked by and muttered something unintelligible to the crew.  Their cordiality evaporated. Casting down their smokes, they snatched up their rakes and plastic bags, and gloomily returned to public service.

Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac.  He speaks Russian and worked in Moscow as a copy editor for the economic news agency Prime-Tass (prime-tass.com). He holds a Master’s degree in Russian, East European, and Eurasian Studies, and has accomplished advanced PhD. work in political science. He believes that defeating socialism and all other forms of collectivism once and for all means thoroughly discrediting the ideology utilizing reason, evidence, history, and philosophy.  He is currently editing his first fiction novel.

Lemonade Concessioneers to Unionize Due to ‘Big Mean Government’

Young lemonade stand owners across America have been the subject of government witch hunts for the last few months.

Local governments have been shutting down stands owned by children trying to make a little extra summer cash to pay for pet food, toys and trips to amusement parks. The government crack-down has all but dashed those hopes.

Now, the youthful concessioneers are fighting back. The Lemonade Makers And Operators (LMAO) union is being formed to protect the rights of the pre-pubescent entrepreneurs.

Watching the government attack Boeing and now guitar makers that are either not unionized or have decided to operate a factory in a right-to-work state, the young business owners have figured out that going union has advantages. Little Bobby McAdams said, “I just wanted to save up some money to go to Coaster World, now I have to join a union just to make a buck? Nine more years you mean democrats.. then I can vote!”

Susie Craven told CDNews that she had no choice but to join the union because “Big government is really, really big and stuff. I can’t even vote, but if my union dues being funneled to a few democrats will get them off my back so I can feed my hamster – fine, sign me up!”

this post is fiction, children aren’t really unionizing – it’s an exaggeration to prove a point .. or two.

People for the Ethical Treatment of .. Rocks

Appearing at a People Against Dangerous Environmentalism (PADE – pronounced ‘paid’) event, former Vice President Al Gore said that the spotted owl, delta smelt and albino salamander are to blame for the warming of the earth. The sudden proliferation of those protected species and the sudden over-reliance upon solar farms and windmills is creating a warming effect in the atmosphere directly over so-called “green states”.

Having recently pointed out that everything from breathing to cow farts were contributing to man-made global warming, Mr. Gore now explains how environmentalism has become a major contributor to the problem.

There are entire companies springing-up that promote the protection of certain animals and certain types of green energy. Some of them are OK, especially the ones I have a financial stake in. The others, however, are dangerous and we must shut them down – or take them over if that’s to my .. er .. our advantage.

Gore has recently railed against people that eat beef, farmers, people who walk on the left side of the sidewalk, take up two parking spots and “idiots that take the last cup of coffee without making a new pot”. “I can’t believe that everyone isn’t mad at those people. They’re wrong, all of them, and their killing our children – and also – grandma.”

Not everyone is falling in-line with Al’s version of climatology and he’s not taking it sitting down. In a recent conversation with Alex Bogusky, he paralleled climate skepticism to racism saying, “When racist comments would come up in the course of conversations, There came a time when people said, ‘Hey man, why do you talk that way? That’s wrong, I don’t go for that, so don’t talk that way around me. I just don’t believe that.”

Gore also recently visited a solar energy plant in the middle of a baron desert where he scolded the plant owners. After expressing his concerns for the safety of plant workers due to “attacks by spice worms”, Al Gore turned his focus to the company that built the plant.

This plant has irreversibly destroyed 13 cacti which were taking carbon out of the atmosphere and putting it in the sand – where it belongs. Instead of a few cactus, now we have all of you here breathing and stuff – which is bad – really, really bad.

When asked what humans should do, Mr. Gore responded, “Live naked in mud huts, of course – and eat rocks – because rocks don’t remove carbon from the atmosphere.” Joe Blow, president of PETR (people for the ethical treatment of rocks) could not be immediately reached for comment.


This entire article is satire, fiction, false, not real, made-up, imaginary. Well, Al Gore is real – unfortunately.

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