Friday, December 30, 2016

December 30, 2016

Dear Diary,

Woke up late today, probably around 11:30, after a fitful night of sleep.  I would have slept even longer, except that Bill woke me up when he stumbled in after a night of partying and knocked over a chair in the hallway.  He can be so rude.  Then he mistook my bedroom door for his and just barged in, landing face down on my bed.  Needless to say, I was quite startled, because I was wearing the nightie Huma had given me on that darling trip we took last spring.  The lacy one with the see-through top.  Bill almost saw my babies, but I covered up in time.

As he straightened up, he slurred something about Barack kicking out some Russians and that this could be the start of World War Three.  He thought I'd want to know because our Feckless Leader was FINALLY starting to do something about those horrible Russians and how they made sure I didn't win the you-know-what.  Big deal. A month after anything matters, this is all he does?  Un-fucking-believable. And you know that Putin won't give two yanks of a moose's cock about it, either, because he's been working full time to show the world what kind of a cuck Obama really is.

I'd heard all those stories about Barack being "less than a man," and I never stooped so low as to question anything about his, um, personal life. I leave that to all those loyalists extremists who will do or say anything to win.  That's not me.  When they go low, I go shopping.  Usually for a better fitting pants suit, especially if the Nutra-System chocolate shakes are working that week.  In any case, there's a truth about Barack that nobody really knows.  Now, dear diary, you will know that truth.

The sad truth is that neither of the Obamas ever liked me.  But then, I told everyone they were making a mistake back in 2008, when those Kennedy Catholics chose him over me, mainly because he's a you-know-what and I'm just your basic white person.

The fact is that he's really not much of a man at all.  Nobody knows about what happened after our second debate in 2008, because there were no media or cameras around, but after the lights were out and we'd shaken hands for the cameras, I called him over and asked if we could talk privately.  Then, when we were alone, I full on punched him in the head and dropped him like a bag of bricks.  I'm not kidding, he went down fast, crumpling like a bag of potato chips.  One punch, I swear.  It was that easy.  When he came up, he was crying and whining like a little girl. I must have hit him really hard, because there was a deep imprint in his face from that friendship ring I'd received from one of my female assistants.  You can still see the scar there, if you look at his face close up.

What can I say, except that he was totally my bitch that day, begging me to stop. Then it got weird, because in a moment of delirium, he started swinging his arms like a windmill, lashing out with screams of, "No more, Michelle, please!"  I thought he'd learned his lesson, but apparently he's still the same Barack I've known all these years.  I can only imagine how hard Putin and his manly men are laughing right about now.

You know, I haven't' thought about that incident in years! I'm feeling better, dear diary.  Maybe the past does have good memories that help us over our present challenges.  Maybe there are possibilities yet to be realized and prescriptions to be refilled.

In the meantime, I need to call the maid to clean up all of Bill's barf on the floor.

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