Sunday, July 04, 2010

The Cult of St Barack

In a cramped, one-room, DC dive, the seven of them lived, funded by MoveOn through the 2008 election with a George Soros grant, and fueled by St. Barack of Chicago and His visisons.


"I could not stop biting my nails," declared Jack. "I chewed on them at all times, it was a nervous habit. And they tasted funny because I frequently forget to wash my hands. Sometimes I would be in mid-bite and have to choke back a retching sensation. But that is in the past."

Jack waived a well manicured hand in front of his six roommates who all murmured in approval.

"I encountered the Miracle of Change via MSNBC and I stopped biting my fingernails."

"It is a miracle!" the six exclaimed as Jack nodded.

"I was a 21-year-old man who was ashamed I wet the bed," said pudgy Dean speaking next. "I would hang my head in shame and wonder when it would ever stop and why I was being punished. I attended a training camp and all my problems went away. Now each morning, when I wake up in my urine saturated bed, I no longer feel shame!"

His roommates applauded enthusiastically.

"I was a 20-year-old virgin," declared Stu. "I had never had an orgasm in my life and feared I would die a virgin. Then I attended a one of St. Barack's revivals and whipped it out as he led a chant of 'Yes, We Can!' I spunked on the backs of everyone standing in front of him and, since that day, I've been beating the monkey raw. Literally. If I jerk off tonight, I think I'll bleed."

A roar of approval went through the room.

And so it went, week after week, as they seven slept together, farted together, jerked off together, plotted together and did everything they could to spread the Gospel of St. Barack.

They had worked month in and month out and the election was next week. St. Barack would emerge triumphant and they would spend the next four years in ecclesiastic fervor.

"Damn it, Stu!" yelled Arthur one warm April 2010 morning. "You've got to stop using my dress shirts for cum rags! Now what am I going to wear to my job interview?"

"Job interview? You've got a job interview?" Jack asked nervously, chewing away at the nails on his right hand. "How'd you get a job interview? Was it Or SEUI? Or The Roosevelt Institute? Or The Nation Institute? I sent my resumes out again last week. Who called you? Who?"

As bad as things were for Jack, they were even worse for Dean who, since the election of St. Barack to the White House, was no longer a bed wetter.

Or no longer just a bed wetter. Dean now urinated on himself in waking hours.

"Dang it, dang it, dang it to heck and back!"

Everyone looked over at Dean who was dressed in his Mickey Dees uniform, the crotch of which had an expanding wet spot.

"Now I've got to change again!"


The word seemed to linger in the air.

It, like St. Barack, had once held so much promise.

It had motivated them non-stop.

Barack was going to rock their world and then change it. The whole world would engage in group hugs and games of grab-ass in the shower room. The whole world . . .

All thoughts stopped as Arthur let a loud one rip.

Somehow it perfectly encapsulated the Barack Obama administration.
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