Barack's O-lympic Dreams Dashed

Barack Obama jets off to Copenhagen, Denmark to accept the IOC's desperate pleas to host the 2016 Olympics. The Commander-in-Chief steps off of Air Force One. A pure beam of white light cuts through the puffs of black wafting smoke. A Cheshire Cat grin sparkles.

A moment of awe. A frantic mother runs to The One to heal her baby before being tackled by a secret service agent. Then flashbulbs. Oh God, the flashbulbs. The entourage bathes the narcissist in explosions of blinding light, coating him like an infant in his mother's womb. This was Obama's element.

Terry Schwab, a thirty five year-old unemployed steel mill worker in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, head in hand, goes through the stack of bills one more time, desperately looking for a way to trim the family expenses. His wife Jen and three elementary age girls, Michelle, Molly, and Sarah, are in the kitchen laughing as they bake a tray of brownies. The family is barely getting by. His wife works at a diner and makes enough to put food on the table and a roof over their heads, and little more.

Terry has been searching for over two years to find meaningful employment, but the sad fact is that industrial jobs in America are dying or being outsourced, due partly to increasingly stringent environmental regulations. So Terry returns to his old job site, now the home of a casino and hotel complex, to try to get on as a construction worker or even a card dealer. Unfortunately, the casino is out of job apps, and may not be giving out more to the public until next week...

President Obama sips champagne elegantly from his fine-fluted glass and chortles. Not so much a chortle, but more "expression of amusement number five," which Emanuel assures him is a "real killer."

At the Olympic Committee roundtable, Obama picks at his goose-liver pate. Already dreaming of a Riefenstahlesque ode to his glory, the president brings himself back to attention when a shadowy figure tip-toes lightly to his right ear. "Mr. President, now - were the teabaggers to be Nazis or racists this week? I can hardly keep it straight."

"Let's go with Nazis," the president replies, staring down at his arugula salad. He wipes his mouth coolly with a napkin, dabbing each corner of his reptilian lips. He discards the napkin deftly onto the plate and nods his head in dismissal.

Cut to Afghanistan. Private First Class Mike Thomas is out on a routine patrol around the outskirts of the Northern Afghani village of Durkali. The dust clouds roil from the back of a well-worn jeep SUV, pock-marked with 7.62s. The portable stereo blares AC/DC's "Highway to Hell." Thomas, a corn-fed Nebraskan, flicks a half-burnt cigarette out the window and turns to Sergeant Jim Miller, Ray Bans shining like viper eyes in the wan glare of the Afghan sun.

A high-pitched whirr screams past Thomas' ear and slices through the jeep. Then rounds ping around the front right wheel-well. The jeep jolts as the tire bursts. The sound of AK-47s and furious whelps.

Miller rips the wheel hard left off the road to establish cover. The two soldiers pile out, and using the jeep as a screen, make their way to a secure vantage point. They spot two Afghani soldiers, apparently Taliban, on the roof-top of a chalky hovel. One is armed with an assault rifle, the other is pacing with a handheld radio. Two women and a thin child are escorted from behind the far side of the building by a man with a rifle slung over his back and hurried into the front door.

The Sergeant glances at Private Thomas with an expression of knowing and swears. This was definitely a planned ambush. Taliban support troops were sure to be roving in the hills surrounding them, and if they made their way back to the vehicle they could be pinned down with sniper fire. Sarge pulls out his radio-set and laser-gun to paint the target for an air strike. "But what about the women and children? Thomas asks. "The new ROEs specifically state..."

"Get Mayor Daley on secure teleconference." Barack and his entourage were absolutely giddy over their presentation for Chicago 2016. It was flashy, carefully edited, and most importantly, it drew attention to all that is best about the windy city. Namely, him.

"It's a done deal, Rich. I had some of our people bribe the Germans, and we all know about the Russians..."

"Good, Barry. I knew we could count on you to pay us back for delivering the vote. Those of us who doubted you were dead wrong."

"I also got you that extra funding you requested, as long as we agree that the word will get out that this is to be the 'O-lympics.' You don't know how much bullshit I had to say about the greatness of America to lock this baby up."

"We all appreciate your sacrifice, Barry. Anything else you propose?"

"Well, I have this idea that occurred to me last night in a dream. In it, instead of the bourgeois notion of competition we replace the entire concept of the O-lympics with the idea of equality."

"Well, how in the hell do we do that?"

"First, we replace the judges with "praisers," who lavish praise on the participants regardless of their performance. We need to nurture people to bring out the best, I mean, the most equal in them. Second, everyone should be awarded gold medals. But again, gold - such a capitalist notion. Besides the government could put the gold to better use - say, adorning my presidential picture frames. So instead, we should issue certificates to represent gold medals, equally valuable, or equally worthless depending on your perspective."

"But wouldn't that demotivate the contestants, I mean, the participants?"

"That's why I want a giant 200-foot portrait of myself looking down adoringly on all the participants. If that doesn't motivate them to do a good, I mean, mediocre job, I don't know what will. Now about that National Anthem, there's a nice little ditty I heard on YouTube, mmm mmm mmm..."

"Sir, the judges are about to make their announcement!"

Twenty five men in hard hats stand above a large metal dome, tubes and pipes snaking around a dim underground facility. Covered lamps glow pale green in each corner. There is a faint background hum, like holy men meditating in a circle. A clanking of boots on a steel grill walkway. The sound of Persian, and a thrown switch. The piping clanks and the machine springs to life with a fit. "Allahu, Akhbar!..."

"And the winner is - Rio de Janeiro!"

Thousands of stunned Obama supporters' jaws drop to the floor. A wail emerges from the crowd, followed by a mustered collective groan. "Why? WHY?!?"

A glint of rage and then calm floods over the president's countenance. With a wave of his hand, he dispatches his entourage. The president bitterly buries his head in both hands.

"Sirrr..." a trembling voice blurts out. "I am sorry to disturb you, but there is growing public outrage about unemployment, the War in Afghanistan, and Iran's nuclear program. This Olympics bid was our best chance to quell the furor. What are we going to tell the people back home?"

"Blame it on Rio," the president mumbles.