I want to write an "open letter" to Obama, but our format (and limited audience) truly preclude that, so I'll just say this to the Situationists.
If you see him, pass this along.
I have been wrestling with the corpse of my objectivity for the past month or so. I clicked over from "Obama is the best option" to "Obama is the right person for the Presidency" around the time of the "Charrr-lee" interview. I didn't mind. During the flurry of idiocy in subsequent weeks, though, I broke. My objectivity shattered, crumbles, and drifted to the floor. I won't lie: when I voted, my thought process was, "GIVE IT TO ME!!! Give me what I want!"
Soul searching and objective self-inquiry was still in play. I voted correctly. I got what I wanted and, as value added, I am certain that I wanted the right thing. But I lost myself there.
I want to be hypercritical again. I am looking forward to being disappointed that he isn't the end all, be all.
So, when you see Barack, you tell him that I say he has three months to be human.
Three months to lie, cheat, bring flowers in last month's newspapers to the Hilton Wenches (as they dawdle in the dress they are used to wear), huff paint, tear cats, take money from disreputable sources for no reason but to soil his reputation, develop "a wide stance", fart musically, squeeze the Charmin, golf in Scotland, spend time at the "poker tournament down at the rec center", put on a show to save the bikini car wash, read Ishmael, go to the Copa--Copacabana (it is, after all, the hottest show in Havana, and just generally fuck up.
Then he has to live up to his words.
Not the words which promise credulous change, but the promise that he is Kal-El.
He has to become Superman, or I call forfeit.
And (for the geeks), not "leaping tall" anything Superman. No leaping; fly! You fucking fly. And backwards so you go back in time. I want you to use your heat vision to turn lead into aluminum. Because, apparently, that's what heat does. I expect you to use freeze breath in space, somehow making it colder than zero degrees Kelvin. You wil sleep with Michelle and then arbitrarily Super-hypnotize her so that she never remembers it, and it won't be creepy. No. Not at all. You will save the Earth from a comet you heard whizz past Pluto by doing a handstand.
You will punch a wall so fucking hard history changes and new universes are formed or I'm done.
Three words: "cellophane 'O' net". You had better have one, boss.
I for one, look forward to being hyper-critical...SUPERCRITICAL!... again. I look forward to being over-dramatically...SUPERDRAMATICALLY!...disappointed in the mechanisms of leadership.
You will need android doubles.
You need to adopt Krypto. Name your dog Krypto and I'll forgive you for not going after the war profiteers , for not putting Joe-mentum in the corner for a time-out, for...
Wait a minute. You're still against gay marriage, aren't you?
There it is. THERE IT IS!
I've found your kryptonite and I can already taste the disappointment.
Three months, Superman. Then either you save the world or we'll have to. The smelly monkey mass of us.
Or my name isn't Lex Luthor.