op-ed

A speech Obama won’t give, but should

S.E. Cupp Contributor

Good evening, from the Oval Office.

I’m here to talk to you tonight about the crisis in the Gulf coast region, where 50,000 barrels of oil are seeping into the ocean every day, affecting local ecosystems, tourism, the fishing industry, and millions of Americans who depend on the region for their livelihood.

Many of you are rightly wondering, when will it end? And what are we doing to contain the leak, clean up the mess, and assure that this sort of catastrophe never happens again.

Important questions all. But what I really want to do tonight is get across just how pissed I am about this whole thing.

I’ve heard the criticism that this office hasn’t been ahead of this crisis, and that I haven’t been tough enough on the spill. Well to be perfectly honest, I think that’s freaking bullsh*t. I mean, I said on national television that I was going to kick some ass. Name a president who’s done that before. And, like I said another time, I’ve got my boot on its neck, even though I never really wear boots (they hurt my bunions). Well here’s another — I’ve got BP in a figurative choke hold, the kind you’d see in an Ultimate Fighting Championship match (I think — that’s the one that’s real, right? Not that fake wrestling sh*t? Whatever, I mean the real one, where you can do everything but fishhook and eye gouge.)

But there are other graphic and violent tough-guy metaphors I could use to telegraph aggression on this issue. I was recently down in Alabama, for example, and I told a group of local reporters, “Today I’m handing out lollipops and ass-whoopings. And I’m all out of lollipops.” That seemed to go over well. I also told a tourism board in Pensacola that “I’ve got some brass knuckles in my bag that were just dying to see the light of day.” And I mentioned to a group of second-graders in Louisiana that the sh*tstorm I was going to deliver to BP is the kind of stuff that would give them nightmares. Some of them left crying, so I think I got my message across. (I’m also thinking of borrowing a line from the Breakfast Club — the one where Emilio Estevez says to Judd Nelson, “Just me and you. Two hits. Me hitting you, you hitting the floor.” Man, I love that movie.)

To put it another way, America, I’m going to kick BP in the groin so hard it will have to spit the pennies out of my loafers. Eat argyle sock, BP. And love it.

But more than blood-thirsty revenge, I know that the American people also hunger for a solution to our practical concerns on this crisis, like how we’re going to pay for this mess.

Well, fear not…you won’t have to pony up a dime. Because when I’m done here, the big-wig execs at BP are going to have to flip burgers for the rest of their lives just to pay for the interest on the bill I’m going to give them. Or better yet, I’ll make them pump gas at their own BP gas stations, like the little bitches they are. The BP fat cats like that limey bastard Hayward will beg for their lives and the lives of their children just to make it out of this thing alive. Trust me, they’ll pay, or I know some guys in Chicago who haven’t roughed anyone up since that Olympics disaster, and they’re getting antsy. One of them goes by “The Coroner.” And another guy’s known as Johnny “Tunes” because he likes to sing show tunes while he’s busting knee caps. Mostly Sondheim. Believe me, it’s very off-putting.

Regardless of which mook I use for this particular job, BP will pay their bill. Because no one makes me look bad. The White House social secretary once made me wear an ascot to some state dinner and when I saw the photos afterward I had a slaughtered lamb sent to her house. The card said “This is what I think of your fashion advice.” And you know what? It’s been ties ever since. Message received.

So to sum up, folks, I know you’re angry. But if you leave here tonight knowing anything, I want it to be that I’m even angrier. If I could make a movie montage to illustrate just how angry I am, it would be all the best scenes from Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Cape Fear and Oldboy spliced together. Oh, and Nine to Five. Those gals really stuck it to that chauvinist bastard Dabney Coleman.

Thank you for listening, and God bless America, dammit.

S.E. Cupp is author of the brand-spanking-new book “Losing Our Religion: The Liberal Media’s Attack on Christianity.” She is also co-author of “Why You’re Wrong About The Right,” and a columnist for the New York Daily News and a regular guest on “Hannity,” “Larry King Live,” “Fox & Friends,” “Geraldo,” “Red Eye with Greg Gutfeld,” and others.