Did you ever wonder why Obama keeps leaving cooing health care messages to America, even though most of us now refuse to return his calls, why it seems that no matter where we go, there he is, maddeningly available, why he persists, with insane optimism, in trying to coax us down the same blind alleys?
We dated him; it didn't work. But he won't take no for an answer. He fits the classic profile of the stalker, sick in love with himself, but projecting: it's not about me, he says, but you. Whether he knows it or not (and, chillingly, he very well may not), he is lying. It is about nothing but him. He seeks to fill a hole reamed through him by his childhood, but that kind of hole no human other--not even a nation--or a world--of human others can fill. Yet he persists, looking for love in all the wrong places. He is obsessive, and therefore dangerous, no matter how pathetic.
He desperately wants something for America, he says, but the gift he wants to give us is not health care or security or freedom, but himself. He is the gift that will keep on talking (giving only to a few at the very top and very bottom); his once-hidden radical progressive agenda is just the paper and ribbon that add mystery to the gift. Under the flamboyant wrapping, though, is an empty box. A box so big and so empty we can stand in it and hear the wind blow, carrying whispers of the end of the American dream. Barack, it's not funny anymore.
So cut it out. Stop with the midnight calls and the shadowing of the American people. Stop lavishing us with porkulus presents that we can't afford to keep. You're buying us useless baubles with our money, not yours; don't expect us to appreciate it. You are squandering whatever compassion we might otherwise feel. Think of the recent elections as a mild restraining order that you'd be well advised to heed; and understand that the American people are prepared to take much sterner measures.
Smell this, Barry: we're just not that into you.
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