Mickey Obama vs Oprah, MMAuthor Style, pt 1

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November 12, 2010 by David Gillaspie

The Set-up

There’s only one First Lady in America at a time and she doesn’t host a television show. 

The real First Lady changes every four to eight years.  They don’t depend on ratings to stay on the national stage. 

It’s either votes or the Constitution.

For a short time their lives either fade into smiling and clapping like Mrs. Nixon, or they step up like Mrs. Ford. 

England doesn’t have the same problem with their Queen.

Oprah is not the First Lady, but she is the Queen of Daytime Television.  And that is something. 

She is the most successful woman, or man, in America if you define success as a strong hand in books, magazines, movies and television.  And she’s not done.

Oprah didn’t elect President Obama, but they both come from Chicago.  President Obama is his own man, as much as a president can be;  he’s not in debt to Oprah.

He asked Michelle to explain this to Oprah.

“Uh Michelle it’s uh come to my attention that George Bush wrote that the worst thing that happened in his administration was uh when Kanye said the response to New Orleans was weak because uh of the black population, that President Bush didn’t do more because they were black.  As you know uh Kanye is black, right?”

Michelle Obama straightened the collars on her daughters shirts before they left the living room.

“Kanye is black.  That’s right.  President Bush thought Kanye called him a racist.”

Their girls waved good-bye and walked to the front door.

“You girls uh behave yourself.”  President Obama turned to his wife.  “Then you uh understand what I need you to do.  You need to call Oprah.  You uh need to assert yourself as the First Lady and uh my wife.  You can do that.”

Michelle looked at her hands and flexed her fingers.  “Of course I can do that, the question is why?  Why would I do that?”

“It’s the racial thing, like you said with Kanye.”

“Honey, Oprah is black.  I’m black.  You’re black.  Do you see a pattern?  Where’s the racism?”

President Obama picked up a jacket and patted the pockets.  He did the same with another coat.  “Oprah needs to know we are strong, to know you are strong.  You need to show her you don’t back down.”

“You won’t find any cigarettes in this apartment, dear.  Oprah doesn’t need to know anything I could teach her.  She’s doing fine on her own.”

“Fine uh then I’ll say it:  Oprah didn’t elect me.”

“She didn’t hurt you.  She could have stood up for gender, but didn’t.”

“Okay then uh you stand up for gender against Oprah.”

“We’re the same sex.”

“We uh both know there’s only one uh way this is going to go.”

“Do we?”

“The octagon.  Mixed Martial Authors.  You’re an author.  She’s uh an author.  It’s uh on.”

Michelle Obama flexed her fingers.  She stretched her arms over her head so tight that her elbows cracked.  The smile she arranged on her face wasn’t one the President had seen before.

“Mr. President.  Barack Obama.  My husband.  Listen to me now uh country boy.  Did I face off with Al Gore so his wife could brain him with Clinton’s book?  Yes.  Did that poor Jonathan Franzen get into the cage so Oprah could pound Steadman.  I feel so sorry for both of them.  I won’t make one move to fight Oprah.  That’s not something I’ll ever do.”

“I uh see.  Then you’re saying you are uh afraid of Oprah?  You couldn’t uh take her?  You’re uh backing down?”

Michelle embraced her husband, squeezing him to her.

“Uh Michelle uh you’ll wrinkle my shirt and uh I can’t breathe.”

“Honey, theoretically I could whip both Oprah and you at the same time.  For you I’d punch your guts out and push you over when you started hacking out cigarettes.  For Oprah I’d circle and use my reach, push her away, float like a butterfly then sting her like a bee when she rushes in, then I’d knee her in the thighs and drop her.  She’s been having trouble standing lately and I think it’s weak thighs.”

“I see.  You’ve uh considered this before.”

“That’s what a First Lady does.  Where’s the phone.  Where’s Oprah’s number.”

President Obama found a third jacket and frantically patted the pockets.

Michelle quietly sang a Jim Croce song to herself,

“Well the South side of Chicago
Is the baddest part of town
And if you go down there
You better just beware
Of a man named Leroy Brown

Now Leroy more than trouble
You see he stand ’bout six foot four
All the downtown ladies call him “Treetop Lover”
All the men just call him “Sir”

And it’s bad, bad Leroy Brown
The baddest man in the whole damned town
Badder than old King Kong
And meaner than a junkyard dog

Now Leroy he a gambler
And he like his fancy clothes
And he like to wave his diamond rings
In front of everybody’s nose

He got a custom Continental
He got an Eldorado too
He got a 32 gun in his pocket for fun
He got a razor in his shoe

Now Friday ’bout a week ago
Leroy shootin’ dice
And at the edge of the bar
Sat a girl named Doris
And oo that girl looked nice

Well he cast his eyes upon her
And the trouble soon began
‘Cause Leroy Brown learned a lesson
‘Bout messin’ with the wife of a jealous man 

Well the two men took to fighting
And when they pulled them off the floor
Leroy looked like a jigsaw puzzle
With a couple of pieces gone

And it’s bad, bad Leroy Brown
The baddest man in the whole damned town
Badder than old King Kong
And meaner than a junkyard dog.”

Barack Obama held his wife gently.  “You know how much I uh love that song?”

Michelle kissed his cheek.  “Yes, I do.”


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