It might seem odd to you, but when Barack Obama started demanding another tax increase on wealthy people, only months after Republicans reluctantly agreed to one, my reaction to it was more relief than anything else. I’ve actually given you the reason already: Republicans agreed to a tax increase months earlier (God bless those eunuch sellouts). See, when only a few weeks, let alone months, go by without this president stomping his feet for more money from rich people, it might be an indicator your life has taken a turn for the un-normal. Reality has become surreality. Bizarro looks around and says “this not world me live in.”
It did take me a while to sense any disturbance in the Force, since Obama was still doing the usual badmouthing people and telling shameless lies, much to his credit.
What won’t seem even remotely odd to you, unless you have the intellect of weathered plywood, is that our federal government couldn’t solve a problem even if the characters in Mission: Impossible and Burn Notice became real people, and had Mr. MacGyver join them in the Department of Unscrewing Pooches. I know, saying a government is inefficient is like printing a headline like “Scientists Conclude Being Struck By Sledgehammer Painful” or “Couple Unable to Conceive After Husband’s Castration,” but this unique inability to make anything stop sucking even for five minutes recently had me wondering what it would’ve been like if Obama had ever run a business. I even imagined a few scenarios one might expect if we were to ever visit that theoretical land.
I know, I know, any one of us could picture countless fantasies that are far more interesting and plausible than that (like the one where a hitchhiking lingerie model wearing her latest uniform has to ride in my lap because my Bentley is overloaded with satchels of cash), but just work with me here:
(BRRRING!) Hello, Barack Obama’s Troubleshooting & Customer Helpline, where we can fix what you can’t!
CALLER: Hi, I’m with South End Coal, and fifteen of my miners just got trapped down below.
B.O.T.C.H.: Okay, how does one get trapped in Australia?
CALLER: No, not ‘down under’—‘down below,’ meaning they’re underground in the mine. Anyway, they have the training & equipment needed to make it out in a few days, but they’ll probably collapse from hunger or dehydration before making it out if they don’t get some food & drink soon.
B.O.T.C.H.: And are these gentlemen of, shall we say, a sizeable nature?
CALLER: The smallest guy down in the group could bench-press Dick Butkus against his will.
B.O.T.C.H.: Got it. Okay, I can refer you to our Emergency Nourishment Department, where they’ll provide each miner a daily meal consisting of an oyster cracker and a syringe of lemonade. If for some reason that doesn’t do the trick, I also suggest getting wealthy people to pay more taxes. (CLICK)
(BRRRING!) Hello, Barack Obama’s Troubleshooting & Customer Helpline, where we’re better’n you.
CALLER: Hi, it’s been raining heavily in my area non-stop for weeks now, and it looks like the canyon past my backyard may soon be filled to capacity and spill over onto my property.
B.O.T.C.H.: Don’t you worry your pretty little head, ma’am. We’ll have a thimble out to you in about a week, C.O.D. In the meantime, you can just use the little thimble from your Monopoly game.
CALLER: But we don’t own Monopoly.
B.O.T.C.H. You should–it’s really fun!
CALLER: Noted. Say, any other suggestions regarding the potential drowning of my house?
B.O.T.C.H. Glad you asked. Have rich people pay higher taxes. (CLICK)
(BRRRING!) Hello, Barack Obama’s Troubleshooting & Customer Helpline, where we make omelets while you suck eggs.
CALLER: Hi, I’m the staff supervisor at Property Management Services, and a very wealthy potential client just surprised us with his plans to buy a mansion we maintain in the Eastern Estates. He’s flying into town tomorrow to give it a brief walk-through, just as a formality.
B.O.T.C.H. How wealthy are we talking?
CALLER: I heard he collects small tropical islands as a hobby.
B.O.T.C.H. I see. Probably doesn’t pay his fair share of taxes. Bastard. Go on, please.
CALLER: So I stopped by the property to give it an inspection a little while ago, and apparently the team I had assigned to it has been using the entire downstairs for paintball games, and the two-acre backyard has gone without a mowing so long, we could hide Stonehenge back there…
B.O.T.C.H. (Interrupting) Well, it’s a good thing you called us, because that’s a stupid idea.
CALLER: I was just being fac…never mind. And as if those problems weren’t enough, the master bedroom smells like a rotting corpse.
B.O.T.C.H. That’s actually pronounced “core.” Don’t worry, I’ve got our Supply & Accessory Department pulling a facial tissue and a cup of warm water for the downstairs, a pair of fingernail clippers for the backyard, and a pine tree-shaped air freshener for the master bedroom. My intern will bring the supplies right to you. You’re on his way home, though in the opposite direction.
CALLER: (sighs) Got anything else?
B.O.T.C.H.: Yes. (CLICK)
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