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.
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