An announcement: This is satire.
After writing about 150 million Americans going to Mexico, swimming back across the Rio Grande, applying for benefits as immigrants, and becoming instant millionaires…some people believed I was reporting (or misreporting) a fact.
But satire can be more real than reality. (Many things, as it turns out, are more real than reality.)
Television, for example.
Anyway, the period between the election of a president and his inauguration is a fascinating one, because that’s when the shiny new commander-in-chief learns the score.
He knows certain secrets already, but people of importance fill him in on the rest.
In President Obama’s case, he had questions.
On a fall afternoon in 2008, comfortably ensconced in a Virginia cave 600 feet below the Langley headquarters of the CIA, in a room that was soundproofed a dozen different ways, Obama sucked on a non-filtered Camel, sipped brandy, and said:
“Look, Mark, or whatever your real name is, I get the fact that I’m deliriously happy with Michelle. That’s been explained to me. We’re the perfect couple. I get the fact that I’m working for ‘the bankers,’ and I get that I’ll be launching a few military actions and stringing out operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. They already filled me in on that. But what about jobs?”
Mark, an Ivy League prunehead from an old Boston family, stood up and started pacing.
“Barack, the jobs thing is tricky. We don’t want jobs to come back. We want to make people believe they will come back and are coming back. We can manage the statistics on it. That’s no problem. But we need you to be the blue-sky guy for a bit. We need you to sell it. We need you to dazzle the rubes with a brand of bullshit that soars like music.”
“Well,” the new president said, “that’s what I do. That’s why I’m here. Don’t worry about it.”