A Terrible Waste

Those crazy kids Barack and Michelle made the cover of In Touch magazine this past week sharing the secrets that keep their love alive. Is it just me or does anybody else have a problem with the President of the greatest nation in the world dishing on his love dare in a trashy magazine? I can see him giving up his diet tips to help reduce the need for national healthcare, but isn’t it a little undignified for the First Couple to act out their version of the Presidential Dating Game in the cheap seat glossies?

I appreciate candor as well as the next person, but I don’t want a President that kisses and tells. That’s just un-American. That sort of thing is supposed to be exposed by freedom of the press.

My problem is this. If the man doesn’t keep quiet about keeping the First Romance alive, how can we expect him to keep his lips locked when it comes to lying to the Russians about how many nuclear half baths we’ve added to the White House? How do we know he won’t leak the National League standings to Fidel and Charlie McCarthy Castro?

I refuse to encourage the media in meddling in the private affairs of the President and his main squeeze. I’m proud to say that I did not buy that magazine. No siree, I read that puppy right there at the cash register, leaning against the Snicker bars and Juicy Fruit gum.

Speaking of puppies, I’m wondering how long true love is going to last now that they have a pooch on Pennsylvania Avenue. A few episodes of Doody Gate and there’s going to be a drop in the polls for the love match.

I can just see the President getting up and shrugging on the First Plaid Bathrobe in the middle of the night and padding along the White House shag when all of a sudden the First Feet find a squishy gift left unnoticed by the new puppy Bo who, at five months old, is still a better leaver than Retriever. The first thing the man of the house is going to do is blame it on the Missus.

“Michelle!” he bellows over the handy Intercom.

A few minutes later a sleepy voice answers back. “Baby, I’ve been up interviewing with trashy magazines and modeling longwaisted dresses all day. This had better be good.”

“There’s POOPY in the White House!”

Silence. Then, “Baby, this is America. There’s been poopy in the White House for 200 years.”

Mr. Obama, wise in the ways of political excrement, thinks to himself a minute. “The situation is foul and stinky and I put my foot in it and smeared it everywhere. I need someone who’s an expert in smelly waste to help me out.”

So he calls Bill Clinton.