Obama Eats Poodle Droppings at Spielberg Event

obama

courtesy of William Bontrager

  MSNBC NEWSROOM

“Hello. I’m Rachel Maddow, and my face always looks scrunched up like an anus because my views are so powerful, they have permanently twisted my face. Our story brings us to sunny L.A., where the president is about to enter the Holocaust museum courtesy of Mr. Spielberg. We see the president arriving now. Michelle, the first lady is following him. She is fussing at her assistant. Oh! It looks like she has a McGriddle in her hand, and she is unwilling to let it go. Now,…ok. She released it. Whew! That could have been bad.”

“Attending this prestigious and well- deserved event for the president, are media moguls, David Geffen, Rupert Murdoch, Disney Chairman, Alan Horn and Moloch the Owl God..OOPs, I didn’t say that on air did I?”

“No. You must not utter the dark lord’s name!” screams a voice off air.

“We will blame it on the Tea Party. They hijacked the set”, Maddow titters.

 

LOS ANGELES

         “Mr. President. Thank you so much for coming here,” Steven Spielberg approaches.

“Well…I…can’t pass something like this up. There isn’t much happening..in D.C. Joe Biden is having a sleepover.  LOOK!”

“Isn’t that sensational?! I hope you didn’t get offended by the signs out there. They don’t reflect our views.”

“What signs? Oh yes…those offensive signs. Eric Holder is on the job. We can’t have racism like that.  He is taking care of it”.

“Uh..what do you mean Mr. President?”

“Never-mind that. Is that caviar?”

The president takes a finger and swirls it in a black puddle on the table, brings it to his lips, and slurps it up. He chews thoughtfully.

“No…Mr. President! Those are droppings from Barbara Streisand’s toy poodle. The dog is always in her purse and must have went number two on the table. We’ll get someone to clean it up.  Boy!Oh, Boy!” Spielberg calls out.

A fresh faced youth emerges and starts to clean up the mess. Actually it is Kevin Hart, dressed as a sailor, wearing a halter top and a pair of really short shorts. There is a look of quivering fear on his face.

“Kevin. Clean this mess up quickly. And Kevin, please do it on your hands and knees,” Speilberg says with a wolfish grin.

“Mr. Spielberg, sir, uh. It is on the table. It don’t require me to be in that position, uh sir. I would rather..,” Hart begins to mutter and weakly protest.

“You know. I hear that Sinbad is making a comeback. Maybe I will call him up for that cop role with Justin Timberlake.”

“Hands and knees, it is. Thank you sir.”

“Look. I don’t know what you put in that caviar…but ..I want more of it delivered to my table!” Obama cheers.

“Yes. Dog feces delivered to your table, very good. Anyway, thank you Mr. President. We have your instructions here. It simply states that you will  mention that we are not benefiting in any way financially from this event. We in Hollywood, are doing our part to maintain a moral outlook while delivering high quality and original programming and cinema that encourages independent thought.

With that everyone around them laughs uproariously.

“I should go. I think Nancy Pelosi has drowned herself in the punch bowl,” replies Speilberg, and exits hastily.

Soon everyone is in their seating area.  Two armed men are carrying Nancy Pelosi, who staggers, hears the ceremonial  music, and then starts dancing like the lady in Pulp Fiction.

“Come on Travolta,” she slurs.

The object she grabs and tries to embrace is not John Travolta. It is a house plant.

“How many drugs did you give her this time?” an assistant asks Harry Reid.

“Her normal suitcase,”  Harry Reid flippantly responds.

Obama stands up and waves to the crowd from the podium. Valerie Jarrett is in his ear piece and in an underground area and shouting orders to the president. The president gets frightened and a puddle forms around his hips. Kevin Hart is quickly there with a mop. He grins to the audience, and half the directors in the crowd smack their lips and run their tongues across their mouths. A single bead of sweat drips off Hart’s temple and he retreats.

“Distinguished guests, celebrities…ahh …Look…affirmative action…hard working Americans….let me be clear…can’t wait for Congress to act…have to move…Look…Bush did it…thank you,” Obama says, holds his award in his hand, and walks off.

“What an orator!” the crowd exclaims in intoxicated and drugged awe.

“He tells the bare-bones truth!” yells Bruce Springsteen playing the air guitar.

Meanwhile Eric Holder and Al Sharpton are roaming the streets of California  fixing offensive street signs.

“Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Hollywood…all white people names! I aint watching that show Friends!” Al Sharpton bellows, drooling over himself and sniffing incessantly. There is some white powder on his nose.

“For now on, Hollywood will be called Haywood, Santa Monica will be called Church Girl Monique, and Beverly Hills will be called, Black Folks Be UP IN HERE NOW. I enjoy my job!” Eric Holder exclaims.

“And we just getting started!” Sharpton rejoices. The wire he is wearing springs from his suit jacket and he tucks it in again, sniffing…

 

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