Limbaugh Challenges Obama to a Rap-Off

Yo, yo
Check it, check it
My mama named me Rush
On the street it’s Oxy C
I hate Commie Libs
And you know they don’t like me
The radio’s my soapbox
Elected office’s for fools
But if I were head honcho
I’d outlaw Spanish language in the schools
Gotta beef with Barack
Only I know why
My American duty is to grouse
Live free or die
Die
Die
Die

Yo, Barack’s on the mike
Don’t mean to rush you off the stage
Limbaugh, you’re damn lucky
The Dems don’t stuff you in a cage
Cuz we in power now
America made the call
But if you wanna rumble
Then I’ll meet you on the Mall
Give the stimulus package a chance
Or I guess your bread’s off being partisan
If only you’d play nicely
Though I can’t picture you as a courtesan
Courtesan
Courtsean
Courtesan

Courtesan? I don’t think so, ese
Try “Truth-Detector” and “Weapon of Mass Instruction”
El Rushbo is your Doctor of Democracy
(I throw in some Spanish purely for obstruction)
Barack, I want you to fail
And it’s not because you’re black
You stand for everything I loathe
(Though were you white I’d cut a little slack)
I’m America’s Anchorman
You’re on my turf, Mr. Hussein Obama
Too chicken to duel?
You no better than Osama
Osama
Osama
Osama

Whoa, that a low blow
Bringin’ up bin Laden like that
Your rhymes are kid stuff
Think you’d hold up in combat?
I can take you on the court
I can take you in the court
I can beat you at any sport
Ain’t no way you can thwart
Me
Barack O.b.
Now, I’ve got pressing things on my plate
This tap dance’ll have to wait
But in the meantime set a date
Ballerina Rahm loves fresh bait

Word.

O Come Emanuels: Scenes from Two Childhoods

The future Hollywood super-agent and the future Washington super-Chief of Staff share a room. Before one of them mailed a dead fish to a new enemy.

SCENE ONE

Lights up on a small olive complexioned child as he plays with building blocks. This is ARI EMANUEL, age six. His brother, RAHM EMANUEL, age seven, enters.

RAHM.      What are you doing?

ARI.            Building my empire.

RAHM.      Whose empire?

ARI.            My empire.

RAHM.      No. Wrong.

Rahm finds a G.I. Joe doll and places it inside the fortress Ari has created out of blocks.

RAHM.      There. Now you have a purpose.

The brothers stare each other down. Then, in one swift motion, Ari swipes his arm and knocks down the blocks.

RAHM.      You’re gonna wish you never did that.

Lights down.

SCENE TWO

Lights up on Rahm and Ari facing opposite corners of the room. Ari has a black eye. Rahm’s fist is wrapped in bandages and his arms are scratched up. Neither turns to look at the other.

RAHM.       Ari Emanuel. Dead.

ARI.             No I’m not.

RAHM.       Dead.

ARI.             Rahm, I’m not dead!

RAHM.        You’re dead to me.

ARI.              Nah uh, you’re dead to me— Dead with a capital everything.

RAHM.        Yeah, well if you’re so dead, why don’t you find a new room.

ARI.              Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll make my own new room.

RAHM.        Maybe you should make a new family too while you’re at it.

ARI.              Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll make my own new family.

RAHM.         I just said that, dumb butt.

ARI.              You’re the dumb butt. YOU’RE THE DUMB BUTT.

Rahm slides off his stool, approaches Ari. He blows lightly in Ari’s ear, waits for a reaction. A moment. Then, Ari finds the play phone by his feet and hurls it across the room.

Lights down.

End of play.

Future First Dog Speaks

He not only speaks, but he speaks to us. The as yet unnamed Portuguese Water Dog delivers his first press conference.

Jackie Calmes, New York Times. First, congratulations on the heightened odds in your bid for the White House. In specific regard to green technology expansion and health care reform, what do you make of President Obama’s pledge to save or create 3.5 million jobs over the next two years? Is this a reasonable projection?

Thank you, Jackie, and thank you for your thoughtful question. I’m afraid I’m unable to comment on the President’s Address to Congress at this moment, as I currently reside in an animal detention facility—emphasis on detention, people—lacking television and Internet access. We are, unfortunately, blocked off from the rest of the world, with few to no means for self-education. However, once I’m in the White House, I plan to make good on the President’s promise to shut down all inhumane detention centers. Guantanamo is only step one.

Paul Kane, Washington Post. As a non-native English speaker yourself, are you a proponent of English as a Second Language programs within the schools?

Sure, look: I would not be where I am today if a kindhearted teacher hadn’t taken a chance on a young runt straight out of the puppy mill. I am not only a native Portuguese speaker, but I’m a dog. I am sensitive and receptive to the needs of our global society. We can no longer live under the assumption that everyone of import speaks English from day one. I’d also like to take this opportunity to speak directly to my brothers and sisters out there watching across this great nation: Woof woof-woof woof, woof-woof-woof woof woof.

Sandra Sobieraj Westfall, People Magazine. Michelle Obama told me that although she prefers Portuguese Water Dogs, Labradoodles are still a possibility. Can you comment?

You know something, Sandra—there’s nothing I can do at this point but pray. The choice is in their hands now.

Sandra Sobieraj Westfall, follow-up question. What are your feelings on the names bandied about thus far: Frank, Moose…

If “Moose” is a stick in Sarah Palin’s tightly hair sprayed coiffure, I’m all for it. If it’s merely the arbitrary musings of a seven-year-old, I’ll hold out for something more inspired.

Carla Bennett, kindness consultant at People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. I’d love for you to take us on your harrowing journey from the puppy mill, as you put it, to the ghastly prison of the animal detention center. You are a rescue dog—from what horrendous plight were you rescued?

Carla, I’d love to divulge all, but you’ll have to wait for my book. I’m in talks with Putnam. Hopefully we’ll have something together by Easter.

Robbie Geet, TMZ. Word on the street’s you were seen exiting an X-Rated bookshop in D.C. on Tuesday. Any comment?

Those accusations are unfounded and I resent the implications. Once in the White House, I will be nothing but an age-appropriate companion for the Obama girls. Moreover, I lack opposable thumbs, making book reading a near impossibility.

Natalie Finn, E! News. Who are you wearing?

The suit is Armani, the fur is me.

The Lonesome Retreat of Tom Daschle: A Western

(To be read in a slow Texan drawl.)

Tom never did like to talk money. It made him nervous. Nerves couldn’t be calmed by nothing, save the Henry he kept in his holster for special occasions. Sometimes he let his hand fall to his hip, if only for the cold comfort that at least one man swung on his side.

The car was Leo’s idea. Generosity in the way of automobiles and servicemen was the finance man’s idea of a good time. What the finance man neglected to tell Tom, and what Tom neglected to reason out for himself, involved the complexity of gifts. “Gifts,” Leo once confessed to the moon, “Are like wives. They look real pretty at first, but sooner or later you’ll pay out your asshole for some peace and quiet.”

Tom couldn’t make head nor tail of that sentiment. And Leo couldn’t hold on to a woman if she was coated in molasses and tucked inside a sowbelly, but that’s for another story.

Tom took the car and the driver from Leo like any respectable man would do under the right circumstances. So at ease with the seven minute ride to the gas station for milk (likely frivolous–by most accounts, the man was allergic to dairy) and the three minute drive down and back up the driveway to fetch the mail, poor Tom began neglecting to tie his shoes. “What good are laces for the seated?” There was the question of gasoline. But the thing about Tom and money was that neither one really acknowledged the existence of the other. Until the world shed some harsh light.

$128,000 in back taxes. “Shoot,” Tom mused. “With all those bills, I could rustle up a whole slew of slightly used cars, maybe even a Bowie to boot.” But it was no use. What was done was indeed done, and here now the Hope Man whispered, “Go back. For the love of God, go back.”

Tom didn’t know what exactly rendered him such a nincompoop. Carelessness? Perhaps. Forgetfulness? Mighty similar to carelessness, no? Maybe a sense of entitlement? Brandish the big gun, and folk ought to pay you. A motto misbegotten. Like a whorechild’s name. “At least you got your health.” Tom wished he could appreciate the uninspired attempt at wordplay now, still fresh.

All Tom knew for sure: ain’t much left in South Dakota but the tears and regret.

And the back taxes.

Dave/Blago

“Now, are you going to continue to be on TV?” Letterman finally asked.
“Well, look,” Blagojevich replied. “I don’t know –- are you going to invite me back?”

And Letterman did invite disgraced former Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich back on his show.

March 2010
Blagojevich is back on The Late Show to plug his upcoming criminal trial. Letterman predictably pokes fun at his expense, and Blagojevich unpredictably pokes Letterman between the eyes. No charges are filed.

May 2010
Rod returns to plug the appeal of his criminal trial conviction. He gives Dave a black brush to match his own and patch things over from his last visit, and Dave feigns gratitude—poorly.

June 2010
Surprise guest Blago pops in to wish his fans a fond farewell before heading off to minimum-security prison. Paul Shaffer leads his orchestra in the tune of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” with the inspired substitute “For He Wanted a Hung Jury.”

February 2012
Interview with Inmate 1141018, a.ka. Rod Blagojevich, conducted via satellite to plug his upcoming book If I Did It: Confessions of Governor Rod Blagojevich, Who was Elected by Millions of Illinois Citizens, By the Way.

October 2027
Recently ordained Rev. Blagojevich swings by the set of Late Night with Neil Patrick Harris to plug his upcoming biopic Dave/Blago. Dave Letterman is played by Woody Harrelson; Rod Blagojevich is played by Zach Braff, who was originally not considered for the role because of his noteworthy baldness.

From the Disassembled Desk of Laura Bush

January 19, 2009

Dear Michelle,

Might I call you Michelle? I feel somehow close to you, closer than I’ve ever felt to any other Negro woman—Condi included!  (Childhood best friend Judy Dykes’ housemaid Hattie not included. That Hattie sure could spin a mean yarn.) After all, you and I share a great bounty of responsibility now that you are America’s current First Lady, a.k.a. present First Lady, a.k.a. for-the-time-being First Lady. And yes, today is your day. You earned it! Good for you!

However, and I simply regret to remind you, I am still First Lady myself. Martha Washington is still First Lady, and Nancy Reagan, and Abigail Fillmore, and James Buchanan’s niece Harriet Lane Johnston. (Catch that? Slipped in a little history lesson there.) You can’t shake a rake at a snake without getting bit, if you catch my drift. Forever and always, all right? Got it???

That said, I graciously bestow this moniker on you, Sister. Might I call you Sister?

Shelly, I feel it is my humble obligation to inform you—nay, warn you—and I’d rather not imply that your no-nonsense ‘tude and straight-forward demeanor scream inexperienced naiveté per se—but look: you are, believe it or not, the feminine face of this nation. You are her mama. Some days the ole girl’ll be good to ya. Some days she’ll bring you breakfast in bed and an eighty-two percent approval rating. Other days, she’ll crap on your nice white blouse and expect you to provide the bleach. Adolescence is a real bitch. Enjoy the initial euphoria of infancy while it lasts.

So what do you do when times get rough?

Absolutely nothing.

Don’t laugh; this is serious business, Meesh. Have you any hobbies? Sewing, crocheting, African dance… Something mindless to fill your idle time? Because I’m straight-shooting you now, brown sugar. You’re in for a whole lot of thumb-twiddling. Responsibilities, sure. The responsibility to shut your mouth and mind your own. Attend a school dedication here, read a book to the blind there, but don’t prop your hopes up on a pony saddle. That Ivy League education ain’t getting you on no superhighway to success now, M.Ob!

Would I have preferred more face time with the American public? More diplomatic work abroad? A job? No, but that’s hardly the point. I sense you’re itching for a more relevant role in the Presidency, Mrs. Obama—or should I say, Michellary? Spare us all the pain, grief and embarrassment for our sex, and know your place. Silently. There’s nothing worse than a yapping pantsuit, and I say that with love, dear.

Just follow my example (maybe revisit some old Leave it to Beaver episodes, pay close attention to June), and you’ll be peachy as pie.

A few housekeeping notes on the residence:

• The milk is expired.
• The beds in the girls’ rooms may be infested. With what, it’s hard to say.
• That red stain? In the fifth floor linen closet? It’s not blood. Nice try.
• The major kitchen appliances are sitting on the lawn next to the fountain. What, you thought this would be easy? You’re lucky I didn’t take an axe to the dishwasher.
• The fire safety axe is missing.

Welcome to your new home.

Yours in Christ,
Laura B.

P.S. I noticed you have very few (visible) skeletons in your closet. Best air them out quickly, sweetheart. You never know when a long buried manslaughter case will resurface—is what I hear.

P.P.S. I for one rather appreciated your bold red and black ensemble Election Night, despite Kathie Lee and Hoda’s harsh criticism on national television. Don’t let it get to you.