Michelle Obama Consumes Milkshakes and Goes Off!


courtesy of William Bontrager

CNN Newsroom, which now resembles a living room. There are no screens, no papers in front of the reporters, just two reporters sitting on a couch.

“Hello diverse Americans, and welcome to CNN, where our slogan is, “Whoa! What are the other news organizations doing now? Oh?! Then we are too.” I am a token African American individual wearing spectacles and here is a lovely white woman at my side, reflecting our tolerance and diversity.”

The white woman smiles blankly then twitches as if shocked. The black reporter smoothly continues.

“And as you see, we are taking a page out of Fox News, and have discarded our desks for these comfortable vellum couches. We have panned the cameras back so you get a lovely view of my assistant’s legs. They are very nice. Are they real?”

The woman responds automatically, “Of course they are not.”

The black reporter continues, unfazed.

“In other news, our queen, Michelle Obama, visited a high school in Topeka to celebrate Segregation Remembrance Day.  The students thought that it was going to be a typical graduation but instead was once again enlightened by our inspiring, and very charming First Lady.”

“Yes. She created such an atmosphere of love, warmth…well, just listen to it and feel the sunny vibes.”  The woman rambles a response before remembering to cross her legs.

The cameras take us to a High School in Topeka, Kansas. Michelle Obama stands at the podium. There are empty McDonalds and Arby’s containers littered at her feet, and all over the stage. She is sweating profusely, banging her fist in frenzy.

“And my ancestors were in chains, beaten and bloody, and crying, screaming, “why, White people?! Why did you take us from our family and homes, and why are your descendants doing the same thing in this day, in this state, in this school, in this very auditorium today? Why white people?!!”

Some teens are crying in the audience. The teachers nod in vapid agreement. The school counselor in the audience looks down at his feet ashamed of his actions, which he wasn’t aware that he committed until just then. Michelle continues, trembling and pounding her fists on the podium, cracking it.

“I see it everywhere! I see it in the soda machines in your cafeteria. I see the product Yoo-Hoo being consumed with no thought. Don’t you know that the brown in that drink is what makes it delicious, and something that would taste wonderful with a cheeseburger and French fries? Yet the white distributing company doesn’t call it by its ethnicity. He doesn’t name it “yo, whassup!” He names it,”yoo-hoo, and takes credit for the chocolate’s labor! Yoo-Hoo is a slave name!” The First Lady bellows.

A woman runs away screaming, and calls to some janitor to start pushing over the soda machines. Other teachers and students are stirring to action. Some listen as if hypnotized.

“And look at the white paper you students write notes on? Look at the lined paper you conduct research with, scribble love letters with! It is white paper! Look at the pages in your textbooks? White paper! Oh, you read the black letters, but look how those black letters are enslaved to their white environment around them?! Yes, that’s right. Brown vs the Board of Education did not go far enough!”

Michelle looks around. They are drawn to her words majestically.

“Now observe your beloved, Game of Thrones. All of those people of color, the Dothraki, and they are being led by a single white person! You have George R. R. Martin profiting off the sore brown backs of this fictional race!” She roars. Sweat streams down her forehead.

She is visibly trembling now…in full rage. All around her white people are crying, other races of children are confused, and the teachers are nodding with tears in their eyes, or hanging their heads in shame.

Trembling, she takes a McDonalds chocolate milk shake from her purse, tears off the lid, and slurps it down like the way Stone Cold the wrestler guzzles beers. Then she lets out a satisfied burp, crushes the cup and tosses it on the stage.

“Now act on what I just said!” She moans, feeling strange from her fifteenth consecutive milk shake today.

Chaos erupts all around her. Teens start fighting amongst each other. Teachers are sobbing in fetal positions. Some are smashing windows, tearing textbooks, and trying to angrily tweet George R. R. Martin. She looks at this satisfied, and feels herself calming from the artificial sugars and chemicals in her milkshake. She calls it a “shake stupor.”

“We are done here gentlemen. I need to gets me a McGriddle! Holla!”

Michelle Obama lazily strides off the stage. In the distance two teachers are clawing each other and ripping each other’s hair out.

Back to the CNN Newsroom

“What an inspiring speech by the first lady. My heart is breaking. What about you token black reporter wearing spectacles?

“I am moved beyond words, mindless white woman. By the way is your heart even real?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Thank you, diverse Americans, for making CNN your fourth, fifth, sixth, or eighth choice of where you get your news from. Good night,” he says.


Obama Eats Poodle Droppings at Spielberg Event


courtesy of William Bontrager


“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.



         “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…



Chapter 1 of Splitting Sides Across Party Lines

chapter 1

  Dreams of His Father: Joe Biden Gets Caught In a Tree  

Explanation:  I wrote this segment after studying Barack Obama’s history. He definitely has been influenced by his muslim father and it has an effect on his politics. Although the mainstream media barely comments about this, or his lack of quick wit when he is not in front of a teleprompter, I will. I also portray Joe Biden as the lovable adorable liberal pet that just does stupid things and gets away with it. He is like a puppy piddling on the rug. Enjoy this segment, as Obama still dreams of his father.  

“He did it again Mr. President.”

The voice comes from an intercom, buzzing electronically. A small mocha hand, fingernails meticulously trim and shining, smacks at the buzzer system.

He thought it was an alarm clock. He comes out of his fog, the hazy glaze of sleep, and it takes him more than a half an hour to respond. He sits in his chair in the oval office, with a blank expression, and then finally shows a sign that he didn’t fall asleep again.

“Look!” he says.

When there is no response from the intercom, he says it again.


Then the intercom replies back.

“Umm, you aren’t giving your weekly address Mr. President. I’m Phil, your intern. Sorry to bother you.” The voice in the intercom seems uncertain, and wavers.

Obama frowns, then he notices there is no podium, or cameras, or teleprompter, or reporters with thin ropes of saliva forming under their lips.

“Ah yes…Phil the intern. I was…working. Consulting ah, some associates about economic policy.” Obama concluded. He spoke some words fast, then in the middle of the sentence he seemed to have lost momentum, then recovered it again, placing some nice political keywords snugly at the end of his sentence.

Phil worked with him long enough to know that meant Obama was taking his daily four hour nap under the desk of the oval office. From the unusually long response, even for this slow processing president, Phil knew that he had dreamt of his father again.

“I just wanted to inform you..Joe is up in the tree again.” Phil says.

Obama frowned, stood up on his tall lanky frame, walks to the window. He slides the American flag to the side with his delicate hands. The sun shines through the oval office window but he sees his security forces around a tree in the distance.

His thoughts are far away though. He dreams. Obama dreams of his father. The current dream is distracting him from his daily routine.

“Dreams of my father,” Obama replies to the haunting empty space circulating in the oval office. Actually he said it to a seven foot cardboard cutout posing in a corner, a smiling Shaquille O Neal from his role in Shazam. Shazam goes with Obama at all times, like a child with his favorite teddy bear.

Obama stares into space, and he is whisked away to his dream as the security team stands on the lawn with their hands casually on their hips.

What Obama writes later in his new book..”I Guess I’ll Keep Dreaming of My Father, is what composes his deep ruminations as he stands valiantly with his hands behind his back.

My father…in a vast space, floating like a little tea leaf in…the air, and he beckons to me. I am standing on..the edge of a mountain. As I see him come close, he reaches out to me. I float towards him in a brilliant light. My father looks at me, a look of complete bliss on his face, wrapped in a shining robe, fluttering musically in the charged air.”

“I am so happy, looking up to my father. He, in his heavenly robes, and me, in my dapper suit, advancing to our celestial reunion in the sky. However, as I draw nearer, and our hands touch, my father’s arms weaken, and he falls to the earth. We hit, with a resounding thud, and I scamper to my feet.

“I yell, what is wrong? No, that’s not right. I yell..Look..then ask him what it is wrong. I turn him over, and he looks at me with wider eyes, accusing eyes, eyes that burn in to me as I shave my chest hair in the mornings. Those eyes say it all. He is..not pleased with me. Unharmed from the fall, more frustrated  than anything, he stands to his feet dusting himself off furiously.

He screamed then up to the sky. “Oh, this is maddening! First I get shafted with the seventy-two virgins promise, and now it seems I can’t float properly like a ghostly vision from the afterlife should.

And like a comforting son, I complimented my father.

“Its Ok, Dad. But what is this about the promised young virgins? They are not there?”

“Oh, they are there alright.  The fact is Junior, I cannot pass to the parts of Jannah that are particularly nice. There is a sparkling river of pure milk, but what the Koran did not say, is that there has to be someone milking those cows on the other side. Namely, me. Yes, there are pretty women for each man, lovely houris, but what the holy book failed to say, is you have to prove your worthiness of them, with “training wives.”

They are large, belligerent women, some who have been guests on, The View.  Oh, it is most vile my boy”, my father said.

“I am sorry father,” I then told him.

And before I was snatched, from my dream, I knew that my first three years was an abject failure, that I was the reason that my father was on his knees, milking cows in Jannah, and why he couldn’t advance. And, I knew..what I had to do, from, that…point onward.

It was just that look in his eyes..that dug into my soul, before I awoke in a fetal position under my desk..”

The security team stands at the White house Lawn. They stand casually, as if this is an ongoing routine. The president emerges, smiling, eyes shining with new purpose/ He would carry on his father’s legacy.

He stops at the tall tree, talks to the security team. The man in charge shrugs his shoulders. Up above there is a high pitched whimpering coming from a trembling branch. The branch bends at the weight of the object on it.

Obama looks up and sees a scared Joe Biden, with arms and legs curled up on a tall branch. Joe’s face is red and flushed, and his eyes are strained from crying. Obama, arms are crossed to his chest and he looks up with a wry grin.

“Now Joe, I told you about climbing that tree. Once you get up there you can..never find your way down. “

Joe Biden whimpers and hugs the branch he is balanced on even tighter.

Obama tells his security team to leave him up there for a few more hours as punishment and then to call the fire department. He shakes his head because his vice president is completely adorable. He leaves the White House lawn recharged to lead America to paradise.


Blog Forward to Splitting Sides Across Party Lines



Foreword by the, Author Behind Splitting Sides Across Party Lines

So there is plenty of parody media out there. When Bush was president, both of them, they were portrayed as squinty eyes inbred idealists that sort of blundered around on the stage of Saturday Night Live.  Dana Carvy would impersonate George Bush senior, and his little white hands would shake and he would mumble, “naht-gonnadooit,” and,” wouldn’t be proo-dent.”

As the real Bush declared to America, telling a sucker populace that he would not implement, “no new taxes.” The hilarious skits captured the nuances of the president perfectly and it went into the archives of great political comedy along with Phil Hartman’s, Bill Clinton.

Then Bush’s son took over. The Big W. He became cannon fodder for every comedian, winy, political group, and YouTube video directors alike. He was funnier than his father. He bumped his head on airplanes, had a shoe flung at him, stuttered with our larger words, an even  took liberties to make up his own words by forming them between a deep southern drawl he developed in the heartland of Texas.

His war outraged people, and incited a huge emotional response, and because he was a white male cowboy type, he was up for grabs to be made fun of.

And so he got it in spades. Will Ferrell was hilarious as the big “W.” Saturday Night Live, like the good liberal show that it had become, led the way in the parody. Suddenly everyone imitated George W, and he became the hated, and funniest, of our presidents and should have paved the way for freedom of speech for comedy, and a new era of parody in our country. After all, although Bush Jr. was bad, at least he gave his enemies the right to jeer at him.

But that all changed. The face of our country has altered. It is because a black liberal has been elected in to office. Barack came in and the air of swirling humor has been sucked up and silenced like a media gestapo looks on. We are afraid, and tremble about what to say. Saturday Night Live led the silence by only portraying Obama as a confident, self-assured guy that has blunderers all around him.

As boring as this president is, and as many long, empty, vain, remarks he makes without the help of his teleprompter, we are afraid to say anything lest we appear to look like a racist, or intolerant in some way or another.

Yet he deserves the criticism, the mockery, the jeers, and the other forms of verbal abuse that all of the other presidents in our free nation have received, and he will get it. This administration has as many blunders, moronic quotes, and scandals as any other presidency yet it has been given a golden ticket, and a pass by the mainstream media.

That is why I am starting this parody blog, because that is our right as a free people. There is just too much comedy in this liberal administration to ignore. If I can inform and entertain with these truths and say the things that people fear saying, then, so be it. Enjoy, laugh and learn with, Splitting Sides Across Party Lines.