Hilary Clinton sits on Barack Obama’s lap in the Fox News camper van. The interior is dimly lit and smells
like bacon. Strapped into a bed at the back of the van is Bill Cosby, convulsing. Bill’s breathing sounds like
boots on wet gravel. Electrodes are pinned to his forehead.
Beside the bed is a jug of blood.
”So, it’s the big day, huh?” Says Fox’s political correspondent, Shirley Zuul.
“I…um…” Obama responds, peering at the jug of blood.
Zuul clicks her fingers until Obama meets her intense gaze. “Hey, Obs. You a fan?” She aims a finger at Cosby, who stirs slightly.
“Shirley,” Obama bites his thumbnail, “That man seems very nice, and he sure smells delicious, but I think maybe I should go. I’m not actually sure what’s going on here.”
Shirley mimes jacking off. Hilary snorts on her fizzy lemonade.
“How long d’you think you can last in a country like this, Barack?” Shirley asks.
Barack thinks carefully, as if all the puzzles and mysteries of the silent black universe have confronted him. Suddenly he stands, swivels on a dime, yanks open the van door and rushes out into the adoring crowd that's been waiting since dawn.
Outside supporters have taken control of the streets below his inauguration podium. Mel Gibson faces Barack Obama, ready to swear him in on an Amway catologue. Obama blinks.
Mel reaches out and wipes a finger across Obama’s cheek. He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, then
pushes out his bottom lip.
“So it doesn’t come off.” Gibson ruminates. “You know,” he continues, “I thought you’d be a lot less ...”
“Lithe? I get that a lot.” Says Barack, looking down to admire his physique.
“No, less African American. Is there any chance you’ll get whiter with age? That would suit me.”
“I’d like to think I can accomplish anything.” Obama answers decisively.
“Well,” Mel says, “That’s all then, you’re in. You’re president.”
Obama frowns. The thousands gathered around him erupt with delight. Gunfire cracks. Housewives climax. Klansmen wash their sheets on high. Fundamentalists check the flight schedules.
“So that’s it?” Obama wonders.
“Yep,” says Mel. “Now listen to me you fuck. If you nationalize ANYTHING before you know it I will roll deep and get all up in yo’ ass.”
“I have no idea what you just said, but I’m sure it was really nice, so thank you.” Obama responds, raising his
hands to the sky as if he’s just hit a three-pointer.
Obama glides to the front of the podium, high fiving, pounding, spinning, whooping and winking.
“People of America!” He begins, promisingly.
A silent bullet hits his forehead and splits the skull wide open. Crack. Blood gurgles.Obama collapses. Two long seconds later he jumps to his feet and waves stiffly. The shocked crowd scream their approval like never before, as if he’s just passed the first test.
“People!” He stutters. “Pe, peee, peopppple, of the, ug,ug, America!! Obey me…obey..ME. And you will not be hurt!!”
Barack’s eyes are too alive, he has jowls and graying temples, electricity crackles around his body, as if he’s
being molested by Arnold Swarchenegger. An observant observer prods his friend.
“That looks like Bill fucking Cosby, man.” The observer says.
Tune in again next time for more New Adventures of Barack in The Obama Chronicles.
with Toby 'The Buzz' Buzzell
Home Defence UK
A Symptom of a Greater Malaise
The Obama Chronicles: Barack’s Story dear god, he just wants to live
Barack Obama; tall and lithe and also black although that’s not relevant, drives a hummer
through the front window of the White House. The chunky tyre marks on the front lawn mark
the moment where white imperialism flatlines, being pimp-slapped aside for the next
generation of African-Americans who want our women. And the police to keep it above the waist.
“Where do you want all your black guy stuff?” A pale servant asks, adopting a south-paw stance and
flicking out a defensive jab every few seconds.
“What would you class as black guy stuff?” Wonders Obama earnestly. The man always wants to learn.
“Mostly weapons, chains, gold front teeth, crack. Maybe some bitches.”
“I only need Michelle, but I could use the weapons...”
In a flash Barack unsheathes a .45 and blasts a sniper off the curling marble staircase behind him.
“I’ll keep the gold fronts too, they’re orthopaedic.” Obama whispers, as the white supremacist topples down the stairs like a slinky.
Meanwhile in the Oval Office, Hillary Clinton climbs out from beneath the presidential desk where she has lived
for 15 years servicing Bill. Hillary wants to yelp some advice at the incoming President. She dodges over to him
and spits tobacco on the floor.
“Do you really want to be President, Barack?” Hilary drawls, sliding a finger down his cheek.
“Uh-huh,” Barack mumbles, trying to control his semi by thinking of Dick Cheney eating a cheeseburger.
“I never liked you people, I think I’m going to stab you a lot,” She goes on, peeling Bill’s crusty gunk off her forehead.
Obama sleeps on the roof that night, but he isn’t alone. Press Whore helicopters swoop and hover above.
“You remember that cunt in power before you?” One journo screams down. “The one everyone hated and wanted to kill. Um, you know, Martin Luther King... Don’t you think you should leg it before the same happens to you? Maybe at the hands of one of these boys?” He hooks a finger toward a couple of chubby pencil-lickers on the White House lawn. They hold nooses and clubs that are on fire.
“I’ve got more glocks and tecs than you,” Barack cries, clutching his African-American teddy for support.
With that the men inside the choppers jump to safety, allowing the unpiloted machines to hurtle down towards
The President. Obama tries to deflect them with his black superpowers, but unfortunately he doesn’t have any.
Barack is torn apart; arms from shoulders, legs from hips, pummelled like pizza dough. His blood seeps
through the Oval office ceiling onto Hilary’s head as she lies on the President’s desk in just her bra and
panties, flicking through a hunting knife magazine.
This is what happens when you vote in a black man, it simply isn’t worth it.