I keep telling my wife it’s not my fault that I’ve blown $100 million with those negative ads against Mitt Romney — and yet despite all the sliming, he’s pulled ahead of me in the polls.
But Miche won’t listen to my excuses.
Instead, she gives me her death stare and complains that the wheels have come off my campaign. She reminds me that my approval ratings are underwater: 49 percent of Americans disapprove of the job I’m doing and only 47 percent approve. If the election is a referendum on my record, Miche says, I’m in deep doo-doo. I’ve got to make Romney radioactive.
As if I didn’t know all that already.
When Miche starts talking that way, I can always tell what she’s thinking: What happened to The One, the Black Jesus, and the Platonic philosopher king we’ve been seeking for the past 2,400 years? Where did that guy go?
I’ve learned that it’s no use arguing with Miche. I just say, “Yes, ma’am.” I don’t mind it that Miche wears the pants in the family. But I can’t handle her rejection. Her attitude reminds me of the time I tried to quit smoking and her brother Craig was asked by a reporter if I used a nicotine patch, and Craig cracked, “Michelle Obama — that’s one hell of a patch right there!’”
I’ve tried to explain to Miche that I’ve done everything Axe and the Chicago campaign gang have asked of me. I’ve pandered to Hispanics by granting green cards to 800,000 of their kids who came here illegally. I’ve come out in favor of gay marriage to get campaign donations from the LGBT community. I’ve abandoned running the executive branch of the government in order to travel around the country and hold fundraisers.
I’ve clocked more than 100 fundraisers since the campaign began — double the number W. had held at this same time in the 2004 presidential race. But despite Sarah Jessica Parker and Anna Wintour, the fat cats on Wall Street are sitting on their wallets, and I can’t keep up with Mitt on the money front. He’s going to bury me in dollars.
I wouldn’t say this in public, but I think a big part of my job-approval problem is my consigliere in the White House, Valerie Jarrett. She sent me to Solyndra, just before it went bankrupt, and to Copenhagen to lobby in favor of Chicago getting the 2016 Olympics. I came home from both of those trips with egg on my face.
Every time I’ve tried to compromise with the Republicans on the budget or deficit reduction, Valerie and Miche remind me that the reason I ran for president was to spread the wealth around and put a cap on capitalism.
I should have gotten rid of Valerie a long time ago, but she’s Miche’s best friend. Valerie runs the White House like it was Skull and Bones — nobody can get in without her say-so. She froze out Oprah, and now the most admired woman in America has refused to campaign for me.