What’s the big deal? So maybe he was born in Kenya. Are we not celebrating the birth of Kenyans now? Is this because of their monopoly on marathon victories? Whatever. I’ll let it slide this time. But when Jomo Kenyatta’s b-day rolls around, I’m observing that shit.
I was lucky enough to get some face time with Obama on his birthday. Here is the transcript from our encounter:
Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Mr. President.
Don’t call me that. I’m not working today.
You’re taking the day off from being the president?
Can you do that?
Hell yeah I can do that. Look…Nobody should have to work on
their birthday. That should be a law. I’m going to make
that my birthday wish and then, tomorrow, when I’m
president again, I’ll grant it. I make my own luck!
Fair enough. So can I ask you presidential questions?
Nope. Only birthday questions.
Uh, okay. How old are you today?
48. 48 years strong, 48 inches long.
Oh, 48…wait, what? 48 inches long of what?
You know what.
There is no way you have a 48-inch long penis.
There is no way YOU have a 48-inch long penis.
You’re more like four to eight inches. Closer to four.
You got a jewy dick. I’m a mu’fuckin’ Kenyan.
I’m gonna pee out my candles. From four feet away. You watch.
I don’t wanna watch. That’s going to be disgusting.
You’ll still eat it. When your president pees on a cake
you eat it.
Well good thing you’re not president today.
Touché, Ben Axelrad. You’ve been pardoned.
Thanks, Mr. Presi…How should I refer to you?
B-Bomb. That’s what my friends call me.
Happy birthday, B-Bomb.
Thanks, blogger. Now go fuck yourself.
Can you guys believe I met the President? I know. He’s different than you’d imagine. Dropped a couple F-bombs. Has a giant trouser snake. I’m not saying better or worse, just different than you’d imagine.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I promised B-Bomb I would go fuck myself.
My name is Ben and I blogged this.
Conspiracy or something! The liberal media is at it again or something! Check out this egregious cover-up or something! Something!
Obama threw that pitch in the dirt and the cameras didn’t show it! They essentially showed everything but the pitch. I understand why. Obama is a left-hander and unless a lefty hurls a baseball 95 miles per hour he always looks like a sissy. Throwing a left-handed sissy pitch into the dirt from a short distance on national television? People would’ve started calling him our first black female president. Slow your role, Barry. Oprah ain’t letting nobody steal that title from her. Knowing how feminine he would look is probably not only why they cut away on his pitch but also why they made him dress like a Southside Chicago volunteer fireman while throwing it.
After the “pitch” Obama joined Joe Buck and the other guy in the announcer’s booth for an inning of sports banter. I am always at first impressed by Obama’s knowledge of timely sports news. Then, eventually, it starts to make me nervous. I don’t care how smart you are, there are only so many hours in the day to devote to processing information. And if the President is aware of more minute sports minutiae than me, a sloth-like part-time blogger who sits around in his underwear all day, he is spending too much time on espn.com and not enough time writing his idea for a 20-part “mini”-series about Bigfoot attacks…I mean running the country…I mean protecting the country from Bigfoot attacks.
One more thing about baseball just to get it out of my system. The night before last, during baseball’s Home Run Derby, if any of the participants hit a home run off some sign positioned in leftfield, State Farm would donate like a million bucks to Cancer research. Four hours and dozens of home runs later, no one hit that sign. I kept waiting to hear what Cancer’s consolation prize might be, but it was never revealed. Apparently Cancer got nothing. Merit-based charitable contributions might just be the sad trend of the future. If not, they’re at least a funny idea for a sketch. “Timmy, you want one last wish you will FIGHT FOR IT!” Up for grabs on that one.
My name is Ben and I blogged this or something.
It’s a tough time to be Presidizzle of the USA, but lately Obama has been making it look kick-ass, too. A little too kick-ass, if you ask me.
In many ways this all feels like a movie, and not just because that’s the only other place we have seen a black president.
First he went to Germany and was treated like a rock star. Or, like we treat a rock star. Like they treat David Hasselhoff. That’s already suspect. Obama and the Hasselhoff have nothing in common. And Germans aren’t exactly known for their tolerance of non-aryans. I’m just saying, they’ve got some history. Jew-toned didn’t even fly there.
But then, today, this giant headline stared me in the neck (my computer screen doesn’t go as high as my face):
How sweet is that? I can’t think of the last time a President got to wage war on pirates. Napster was the closest thing. Not only does Obama get to fight pirates, they aren’t the currently-cuddly, rum-swigging Johnny Depp-ized pirates. These pirates look like displaced Hurricane Katrina victims. What if they are?
Think about it: Recognizing the insurmountability of the New Orleans situation, victims are shipped to Western Africa as a sort of ”foreign exchange program” wherein they receive our natural disaster survivors and we take their coordinated 7-footers. But then the Katrinites (as they are called) are shipped out of Western Africa because, let’s face it, there already aren’t enough Pudding Pops for all the native kids. Realizing there is only one alternative to bringing them home, Obama proclaims them Somalian pirates and systematically begins wiping them out. Americans, enamored by the notion of fantastical battle on the high seas, ignore the obvious impossibility of piracy in the 21st Century, and giggle like children hearing Peter Pan for the first time. All the while, the economic situation grows more dismal, American occupation of Iraq continues, and (in spite of his time-consuming efforts) COLLEGE FOOTBALL STILL DOESN’T HAVE A PLAYOFFS! But the president is a rock-star-pirate-fighter so that kicks ass.
Could it be that I’m right about all this? I already think this Mayan 2012 nonsense is a re-election campaign for Obama. If I’m killed, you’ll know why and who. Obama. or Somalian pirates. Or Mayans. Or Hurricane Katrina.
My name is Ben and I’m blogging on dangerous ground.
This week let’s take a trip down “drugs affect the memory” lane. Don’t let your kids read this blog.
Incidentally, why have you been letting your kids read my blog?
Anyway, here’s a tale from my crypt:
I was in Amsterdam doing the usual Amsterdamian things: Weed, canals, weed, weed, museums, weed, getting run down by bicyclists, more weed, giant pancakes, giant pancakes made of weed.
It’s Amsterdam, pot-smoker’s Las Vegas. Don’t judge me.
So Feist played in town while I was there and I grossly overpaid for a ticket. I like Feist, think she puts on a great show, and had just missed seeing her at a few American venues prior to the Amsterdam trip. My point is, I was excited about the show. So I did what anyone would do having just paid an inexcusable amount of money to see a show he was excited about: I ruined it with hallucinogenics.
Don’t get me wrong, weed is great and ordinarily I don’t need anything stronger. But you have it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and, eventually, it becomes Corn Flakes. Know what I mean?
So I upped the ante.
I see your four days of weed-hazed lethargy and I raise you one box of magic mushrooms.
First off, know that eating an entire box of Amsterdam mushrooms is like eating an entire Thanksgiving turkey. So much less will suffice and that amount only leads to trouble. Eating an entire box of Amsterdam mushrooms, then attending a pitch black rock concert in a foreign country is like eating an entire Thanksgiving turkey and then running the Boston Marathon.
Why have a good time hallucinating when you can be totally terrified instead.
As I sat in this Dutch club with the lights still on, my experience was all things hilarious and profound. You can have some amazing thoughts on mushrooms and whether those thoughts are of the most glorious or most dismal nature they all make you laugh.
These mushrooms are great. I need to move here and open a mushroom farm. This is my destiny.
Then the lights shut off and Feist takes the stage. This should be the best part, right? WRONG.
Oh no, this is not good. I can’t understand what anyone is saying. Calm down, Ben. You’re on drugs. No, wait. This isn’t the drugs. None of these people are speaking English. Where the fuck am I? Why am I asking myself questions? Why am I answering them? You’re in Amsterdam, Ben. I’m on mushrooms in Amsterdam at a Feist concert? Who does that? You do, Ben. You’re kind of an idiot. Why is everyone staring at me? Seriously, why is everyone staring at me? What’s wrong with my hands? Are these my hands? Who’s hands are these? I’ve got to give back these hands.
I spent the first three or four songs holding a conversation with Feist as she sang from the stage. She would sing and then I would respond. I don’t know what language I was speaking, but hey, I didn’t know what language anyone else was speaking either.
I spent the next three or four songs trying to get a cigarette into my mouth. Eventually a stranger came over and took it away from me, deciding that me and anything on fire were a bad combination. I was angry, but she couldn’t tell through my maniacal laughter and falling over.
The next three or four songs were spent barely not falling on my face. I’m not a church-goer, but I’m fully comfortable saying that the fact I remained upright through this stretch of the show was a true miracle.
The final three or four songs were spent slowly becoming aware that everyone around hated me. By the last song I agreed with them. I pushed my way through the crowd and the night terrors and the hobgoblins and the pitch black to the back of the club. I wasn’t out of the dark, but at least no one could get me back there.
Then the lights came on and with them came the giggles, then the funny shapes and my bad trip was immediately forgotten. Everyone still hated me, and I knew it, but who cares?!
I’m on ‘shrooms! I’m ready for anything! When’s Feist start? You missed it, Dummy. Can she play again? No, everyone hates you. I know! Isn’t it great?!
I stuck with pot the rest of the time in Amsterdam. All it took was one crazy night with my friend Shroomy and Corn Flakes weed was Frosted Flakes again.
And Frosted Flakes are greaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.
So are mushrooms. But not covered in milk, like Frosted Flakes. And not at a Feist concert surrounded by French and Dutch people who hated you for George Bush even before you ate way too much magical fungus.
I can only hope that Barack Obama does as much for doing hallucinogens in a foreign country as he plans to do for college football.
My name is Ben and this blog has increased drug awareness.
Obama week is over. Politics are yucky again. Let’s get back to discussing important stuff.
1. Charlie in a polo! He’s a real fresh guy!
2. Fruit on the bottom yogurt, why do you still exist? Blended yogurt is the way of the future, and it is a future we can live now. I don’t know why we even need to have this discussion in 2008. We have the technology, yogurt never has to remain unblended again.
No one prefers fruit on the bottom, because then you can’t lick the lid. And licking the lid, whenever an option, is always the best part.
3. Bill Ayer’s mugshot:
Quit going around looking like Justin Timberlake from ‘The Love Guru.’
Seriously, you’re not fooling anybody. We all know you’re Bill Ayer’s mugshot.
We gotta keep movin’, people.
Let’s get as many laughs in as we can before they make us elect another president in four years.
My name is Ben and I’m ready to blog forward.