Christmas is nearly here, which means that Barack Obama has returned (like leprosy) to his island home in Hawaii to burn through a few million taxpayer dollars, play golf, and eat shave ice while seeing as little of his family as humanly possible.
Not that his annual escape from Washington will be
all fun. He might spend a few somber moments dabbing crocodile tears while offering condolences to the family of health official Loretta Fuddy, the
only woman who saw, copied, and verified his alleged birth certificate before she was involved in a plane crash in Hawaii one week ago and, of all the people on board,
was the only fatality.
As usual, the president will be staying at an insanely luxurious and expensive mansion in the little town of Kailua on Oahu (a town we know very,
very well), on a beautiful beach in the shadow of a mountaintop concrete
World War II pillbox which, thank heavens,
nobody is likely to use as a nearly impregnable sniper's perch.
Which we can joke about (ha, ha!) because we
know that the Secret Service will
already have checked the pillbox out and made
sure it was safe, in much the same way they made sure that the president's South African translator wasn't a violent, fraudulent, actively hallucinating schizophrenic.
It is not currently known if Barry, as he's known in Hawaii, will be reuniting with any surviving members of his old drug-addled "choom gang," or simply spending time on his own reflecting about how much he hated white people when he lived in Hawaii. Either way, "good times."
And so, Mr. Obama,
Hope n' Change encourages you to stay in Hawaii as long as possible and wishes you a heartfelt
"Mele Kalikimaka."
God knows you've caused enough of a melee back here on the mainland.
Fun trivia note: it's still called "twerking" whether you're simulating sex or leadership!
