The Obama Chronicles - Barack gets Inaugurated

Hilary Clinton sits on Barack Obama’s lap in the Fox news camper van. The van is dimly lit and smells like bacon. Strapped into the bed at the back of the van is Bill Cosby, convulsing. Bill’s breaths sounds like boots on wet gravel. Electrodes are pinned to his forehead.

Beside the bed is a jug of blood.

‘So, it’s the big day, huh?’ Fox’s political correspondent, Shirley Zuul says.
‘I…um,’ Obama says, peering at the jug of blood.

Zuul clicks her fingers until Obama meets her gaze. ‘Hey, Obs. You a fan?’ She aims a finger at Cosby, who stirs slightly.

‘Shirley,’ Obama says, biting his thumbnail, ‘That man seems very nice, and he smells delicious. But I think I should go-I’m not sure what’s going on in here.’

Shirley mimes jacking off. Hilary snorts on her fizzy lemonade.

‘How long d’you think you can last in a country like this, Barack?’

Barack thinks carefully, as if all the puzzles and mysteries of the silent black universe confront him. Suddenly, he stands, swivels on a dime, yanks open the van door and rushes into the crowd that has been waiting for him since dawn.

Supporters have seized the streets below the inauguration podium. Mel Gibson faces Barack Obama, ready to swear him in on an Amway catologue. Obama blinks.

Mel reaches out and wipes a finger across Obama’s cheek. He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, and then pushes out his bottom lip.

‘It doesn’t come off,’ Gibson says. ‘You know,’ he continues, ‘I thought you’d be less ...’

‘Lithe?…I get that a lot,’ says Barack.

‘No, less African American. Is there any chance you’ll get whiter with age? That would suit me.’

‘I like to think I can accomplish anything,’ Obama says decisively.

‘Well,’ Mel says, ‘that’s it. You’re in. You’re president.’

Obama frowns. The thousands gathered erupt. Gunfire cracks. Housewives climax. Klansmen wash their sheets on high. Fundamentalists check their flight schedules…

‘Is that it?’ Obama asks.

‘Yep,’ says Mel, ‘now listen to me you fuck. If you nationalize ANYTHING I will roll deep and get all up in yo’ ass.’

‘I have no idea what you’ve just said, but I’m sure it was nice, so thank you,’
Obama says, raising his hands to the sky as if he’s just hit a 3 pointer.

Obama glides to the front of the podium, high fiving, pounding, spinning, whooping and winking.

‘People of America!’ he begins, promisingly.

A silent bullet hits his forehead. Splits his skull. Crack. Blood gurgles. He collapses. Two long seconds later he jumps to his feet and waves stiffly. The shocked crowd screams like never before, as if he’s passed his first test.

‘People!’ he stutters… ‘Pe, peee, peopppple, of The, ug,ug, America!! Obey me…obey..ME. And you will not get hurt!!’

Barack’s eyes are too alive, he has jowls and graying temples, electricity crackles around his body as if he’s being molested by Arnold Swarchenegger. An observant observer prods his friend.

‘That looks like Bill fucking Cosby, man,’ he says.

Speed dating with the Catholic church

St. Gabriel’s church loiters tantalizingly close to Rockwell primary school in North London. This proximity has inspired the church to create a speed-dating programme for the cheeky, knife-wielding seven to ten year olds. The increasingly 'backed-up' church authorities believe it’s a good way to reach out to the hairless youth, pull their arms behind their backs, unbutton their flies, and deliver God's sermon.

Thomas Weengold is the pastor. He is a thin man with child bearing hips, and today he ushers the skipping lonely hearts into the church with a beatific growl. A giant white banner flaps above his head that reads, 'This is just between us, ok Johnny?'

The children are injected one by one into the confessional where they discuss their hobbies and previous relationships. The youngsters queue in nervous excitement, reenacting the truffle shuffle and peeking under Jesus’ skirt. But after the date they have a adult look in their eyes, as if they’ve seen the face of god and want to phone Child line.

The day is over. The children are quiet and still. The nervous pastor phones the Pope, who puts his mind at ease by promoting him. I ask one child how he felt the day went. ‘God’s love comes in many forms, I understand that,’ he told me, ‘but I thought it would be …less horrific.’

I asked Weengold whether he thought the day had been a success. ‘Well,’ he said, pointing at children sitting awkwardly on the hard pews, breathing heavily, eyelids flickering, ‘they’re at peace….and, and, you can’t prove anything.’

They are at peace, it’s true. And yet one feels it was unnecessary for Weengold to empty all the coffins lining the church, squeeze the children into them, and wheel the death caskets out of the church and down the hill towards Tesco.

The Obama Chronicles - Obama moves in

Barack Obama tall and lithe and also black, but that’s not relevant, drives a hummer through the front window of the White House. The chunky tire marks on the front lawn mark the moment when white imperialism flatlines and is pimp slapped aside for the next generation of African American’s; who simply want our women, and the police to keep it above the waist.

‘Where do you want all your black guy stuff,’ a pale servant says, adopting a south paw stance, flicking out a jab every few seconds.

‘What would you class as black guy stuff?’ says Obama earnestly, always wanting to learn.

‘Mostly weapons, chains, gold front teeth, crack and some bitches maybe.’

‘You can have Michelle, but I want the weapons because...’

In a flash Barack unsheathes a .45 and blasts a sniper on the curling marble staircase behind him.

‘I’ll keep the gold fronts too, they’re orthopaedic...’ Obama whispers, as the white supremacist topples down the stairs like a slinky.

In the Oval Office, Hillary Clinton climbs out from beneath the presidential desk where she has kneeled for over 15 years, servicing Bill, and trying to yelp some advice as she spits and dodges.

‘Do you really want to be President, Barack?’ Hilary drawls, while sliding a finger down his cheek.

‘Uh-huh,’ Barack mumbles, while trying to control his raging semi by thinking of Dick Cheney eating a cheeseburger.

‘I never liked you people. I think I’m going to stab you a lot,’ she says, peeling crusty gunk from her forehead.

Obama sleeps on the roof that night. But he isn’t alone. The Press Whore helicopters swoop and hover above.

‘You know that cunt in power before you,’ one journo screams, ‘who everyone hated and wanted to kill, um, you know, Martin Luther King... Don’t you think you should leg it before the same happens to you, by, maybe, one of my boys?’ he says, hooking a finger at a couple of chubby pencil-lickers, holding nooses and clubs on fire.

‘I’ve got more glocks and tecs than you,’ Barack says, clutching his African American teddy tightly.

With that the men inside the choppers jump to safety, allowing the unpiloted machines to hurtle towards The President. He tries to deflect them with his black super powers, but he doesn’t have any. He is torn apart; arms from shoulders, legs from hips, pummelled like pizza dough. His blood seeps through the Oval office ceiling onto Hilary’s head, as she lies on the President’s desk in bra and panties, flicking through a hunting knife magazine. This is what happens when you vote in a black man. It’s just not worth it.

List of victims of the Economic Crash

Cinemas

No one will pay to have a hate-wank over Angelina Jolie in the cinema anymore. They’ll just bring their laptops and crack one off in the cinema lobby while singing ‘Rocky Road anyone!?’

Sex

There is far less sex because everyone is poor. No one wants to get fingered in Burger King near the deep fat fryer because it’s cheap and hot and Judy on chips is fitter than any girl you can get.

Foreplay

There’s just not enough time for it with all the poverty, I’m being serious now. Best thing is to get straight to the anal, pull out for a facial and sell the DVD to Chris next door who can get it projected onto the Tate Modern within the hour.

Nights out

Girls seem to be less slaggy, as if they’ve gained a more moral outlook, a grip on reality or something. They certainly refuse to swallow daddy’s medicine and fart it out their ass; a move I encourage all women to recreate before I give them a pap smear.

Fighting

Men, real men, men who fight in streets, on cars, around lampposts, on buses , outside homes, up the doorsteps, in kitchens, in bedrooms while shagging some poor girl who looks a bit like Alan Carr; these men are broke and tired and can hardly smash the buttons on the fruit machine.

Instead they talk, get know each other, appreciate each other’s sensitive side, discuss previous relationships, weep and wail, and yet yearn for the days when they had the energy to thrust the rim of a pint glass into their new best friend’s lovely face.

The homeless – don’t worry, they probably like it

Daniel has always been homeless. He was born in a Renault 5 which he learned to drive soon after. He took fares, taxiing bald hookers with knives in their eyes to their dates. Pimps shot up his baby formula on the car's bonnet. All this before he was eighteen months old.

Eventually Daniel’s car was stolen by a three year old bully and he had to learn how to walk and beg for money too. He made a good living, sitting on newspaper in Leicester square. He wailed and pleaded for Farley’s rusks, as he clasped a bottle of Cillit Bang.

But the gravy train couldn’t last forever. He soon became a middle-aged man; an age when asking for pureed food seems creepy. He owned a knee length suit and six nectar cards that could claim three Toilet Ducks. And so the circle of life continued. And now he’s sitting in front of me drinking coffee. It doesn’t seem right that he be allowed into Starbucks.

‘I have never had sex with a woman,’ Daniel said, ‘and yet I’m not a virgin, if you know what I mean.’

I didn’t.

‘I have never seen The Wire. I have never felt the love of a dog that didn’t hump me and feel ashamed soon after. I have never tasted ice-cream, I mean I really don’t think what I ate was ice-cream. I have never slept a night without the fear someone will steal my papier-mâché fort'.

Later, as I walked him to his card-board box, moulded into the shape of a red sports car, I realised it’s not just us, the shiny bench pressing white rulers of the planet, suffering from this mentally retarded, paralysed from the waist down, amputated, clinical depression of a financial crisis. The fact is homeless people have been whinging for years.

As I departed Daniel grovelled, ‘Can you spare some change, please.’

I thought about it, rifled through my pockets and lied, ‘Um, I don’t have any. Sorry.’ I felt no guilt. These are the times we are living in.

Britney Spears' legacy - She legalized paedophilia and cut sex crime down by half

Britney Spears, who was ejaculated into the face of the public’s consciousness when she was sixteen years of age, legal in the UK, illegal in the US but definitely worth it, died by her own hand today after suffering a karate chop depression. She was devastated because public opinion had sidled up to Miley Cyrus and Vanessa Hudgens, blew in their ear, sniffed their hair, and dropped aggressively soothing pills into their Alco-pops.
However, to many middle-aged male primary school teachers with candy floss stuck in their beards and wanted posters across Thailand, Britney died when she hit her teens.

War...it's like, ow, that really hurts

War… what is it good for? Absolutely nothing. The original title of Tolstoy’s most famous book. Instead he settled on War and Peace, and we will never know if the original title would have created more success for the underrated Russian thriller.

But war, is it all bad? Can men in indie-kid clothes, shooting at other men forced into battle by their CIA backed tyrants, really be wrong? Is oppressing inferior races who don't believe in allergies and refuse to wear jeans, necessarily a bad thing? Yes. But pushing that to one side, ever since childhood when we crashed a plastic truck over our little sister’s head to steal a wham bar, we realised the joy of battle. It is only one step from the crib to the SAS. My father picked me out as a soldier as young as three, as he’d spent all the family’s savings on MDMA and heard the army was a sweet deal.

Living with the British soldiers, in Iraq, 2003, I learnt the true price of war. I was shocked to see them cower in fear each night, popping speed cubes, biting their fingernails through their bullet proof gloves, cringing as the Colonel screams for one more yard, one more push, one more dead body, that will lead to the end of this terrifying though necessary war. One soldier, who shall remain anonymous, due to him being an unreliable source and not strictly speaking being in the army, said, ‘I can’t take this, the Americans have killed my family, I have no food or water, why is this happening?.’ ‘Shit, ‘I replied, ‘I didn’t mean to interview you.’

I was lucky enough to be positioned in Baghdad when Tony Blair arrived to smirk at the troops and pull some Iraqi Chicks. You could say I looked into the eyes of death and realised just how much I needed telly to convince me it would be alright. The men and I were gathered on the basement floor of a high-rise block of flats near the centre of Baghdad. It was cold. Soldiers had to sit on top of each other. Some men were gazing at the ceiling as the plastic chairs bent back.

Tony skipped in, waggled his lips with a finger, half turned and whacked the back of his hand against his forehead, announcing, ‘teeeerup!’ Soldiers stared, their jaws slowly falling open, eyelids flickering as Blair waved in two Iraqi boys, pushing a lazy-boy. Blair collapsed into the leather seat and flicked the footrest up. He groaned, pulled a Cadbury’s fruit and nut from his pocket and tore into it.
‘Now,’ Blair chomped, ‘I’m gonna cut straight to da chase. Big anti-war protests, lotsa people slagging me off, yeah? Well the long and da short of it is, I’m banning youse from killing people,y'understand?’
‘Pardon?’ Colonel Godamn asked.
‘Sorry, jus don’t make me look good, ya git me.’
‘How do expect us to defeat the enemy Prime-minister?’
‘Well, dope question, homeboy. I believe we are de most charming mo-fuckers on de planet, yeah?’
‘Er,’
‘Yeah so if some geezer giving you shit, screwing, yeah, you just slide up to him and slip ‘im a spliff. Blow a kiss t‘is ladee yeah…? That type o’ shit. I’m outta here check youse all later. Peace out.’

Watching enemy children, hanging off your fellow soldiers' shoulders, clasping each leg, bashing him to death with stones, while unable to retaliate by shooting them in the head with an AK, is a sad sight. But this is the way warfare has been for centuries. An out of touch leader makes decisions from his underground bunker thousands of miles away from the bloody horror-show, declaring war, while enforcing a one-sided, undeclared ceasefire. All of this made irrelevant by the American's carpet-bombing campaign killing millions.
Ain't war hell?! Yeah boyeee!