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Date Night with President Obama

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Dear Mr. President,

We really need to talk. Is this a good time? I hate to disturb you when you’re so busy waging war and picking up your peace prize. You know, I’ve tried to make allowances, but I’m feeling a little bit taken for granted. We need a date night.

Seriously, Barack—may I call you Barack? I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I feel I’ve earned first-name rights. After all, I did leave the safety of my blue bubble to travel to the gun-toting hinterlands on your behalf. I even learned to say Nevada, as in “adder,” just for you.

Speaking of snakes, how low can you go? It’s one thing to throw Jeremiah Wright under the bus, but gays? The public option? Civil rights? I know you’re always telling the girls, “Treat everyone with respect,” but must you grovel to Joe Lieberman and Ben Nelson? What have they done for you lately?

What I’m saying, Barack, is I feel neglected. I miss the romance, the excitement. Remember how you caused such a stir when you took Michelle to New York? I want to feel that special, too. Is that so much to ask? We wouldn’t even need to tie up traffic or incur Secret Service cost overruns. Just a little something to show you care: an executive order suspending “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” a few subpoenas compelling your predecessors to tell when asked, maybe a land-mine treaty. Or how about a bigger stimulus? In fact, I could us a lot more stimulation right now.

Frankly, it’s getting embarrassing defending you to my friends and family. “What’s it going to take for you to admit he’s let you down?” they ask. “Give him a break, he’s tired, it’s complicated. He’s got those Blue Dogs nipping at his heels all the time,” I say. They just shake their heads and smile, a little sadly.

About those Blue Dogs. You say you’re just being a decent neighbor, going over all the time and helping them with their odd jobs, their reelection campaigns. But really, aren’t you being more than just a nice guy? If I’m honest with myself, it seems you love them more than you love me.

Did you think “Progressive” was like one of those progressive dinner parties, where you start out with me, but move on to the Blue Dogs for dessert and go home with the generals? This isn’t the seventies, you know. Does winning over David Brooks really mean that much to you? 

I can’t keep opening my heart and my wallet to you. Not when you treat me like this. Show me that you care. If you can make time for a parent-teacher conference (I so love that about you!), surely you can make time for just the two of us again.

So how about it? Just a date night to prove we haven’t lost that loving feeling.

‘Cause you know what? Soon you’re gonna have to do a lot more than get me a puppy. If this keeps up, I’m going for the golf clubs.

 Yours ­­­always,

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