Wrestling the Snake

There he was on national television, losing his epic battle against the giant BP oil snake as it writhed and thrashed beyond the control of his weak and ineffective grasp.  It spewed and gushed its filth all over him as he cried pitifully for help from his one-time admirers and supporters.  He whined and yipped.  He swore that he would put a foot across its throat as he searched desperately for an ass that he could actually kick; however, it mocked him and spat its vile fluids in his humiliated face until he tucked his tail and slunk meekly away to lick his wounds in the swamps of D.C.

It was not until those burly oil field roughnecks who routinely tame such leviathans came with their big wrenches, powerful clamps, and massive restraining devices that the monster was throttled into submission by their unrelenting determination, strong backs, and muscular biceps.  Prim and Proper Obama was unmasked, stripped of his makeup and mirrors, and exposed as  impotent: limp, feckless, and inept, mindful of Joe Buck in the movie Midnight Cowboy, "a policeman without his stick, a bugler without his horn."

How revealing it was for his wife to abandon him on his birthday in favor of an exciting vacation in Spain, leaving him to flounder in his own mess.  This symbolic gesture was reminiscent of that of the French partisans who jeered as the Vichy collaborators were hauled out of Paris.  Her actions mirrored their sentiments.  In her mind, she covered the inside of her right arm with her left palm and jerked her right arm upward abruptly in a one armed salute to her effete spouse for embarrassing her and the nation.

The fellow who once was considered the sexiest man on the planet has been shown to have the aggressive masculinity of Johnny Weir, the resolute leadership of Barney Fife, and the aplomb and savior faire of Inspector Clouseau.

May your gods be with you.