Cowboy Down

The same way that crème brûlée is unlike pork rinds, and a Lincoln Town Car is not a pickup truck, so is Barack Obama not George Bush. As a matter of fact, one of the reasons Barack Obama is currently President is because he’s SO NOT George Bush. He might just be the most un-Bushish politician currently in possession of a Y chromosome, with the possible exception of Jerry Brown (who doesn’t count because he’s an alien).

But the relentlessly dispiriting Gulf Coast leakage has beaten America with Jimmy Carter’s feeble stick and we’re feeling as impotent as a eunuch watching Cinemax at 3 a.m. on a Saturday; trembling for Daddy to come to our rescue and punch the bad spill in the face. Hence, the media skies have been clouded with entreaties for the President to get his spurs on and cowboy up in front of we little ones.

Calls have come from the left and the right in whispers and in shouts for the Commander in Chief to do something bold and avoid becoming Mister Mission Unaccomplished. Never content to let a national crisis stand in the way of politics, the right has questioned the President’s manhood, suggesting the cold spring Gulf waters may have caused massive shriveling amongst the spillage. Even Spike Lee exhorted him to “one time, go off.” And what Spike Lee says, goes. Just ask the New York Knicks.

For good or for ill, Obama responded. First by intimating that he was furious. And you could tell he really was upset because his face got all frowny- like. Less emphasis on hope and more on concerned contemplation. Then Press Secretary Robert Gibbs spoke of a clenched jaw, which to be honest, could mean anything. He could  have gotten a piece of tofu caught in his bridgework. Or perhaps he was trying to squeeze out the last bit of flavor in his Juicy Fruit. We don’t know.

Finally, Obama was heard to say “we talk to these folks because they potentially have the best answers, so I know whose butt to kick.” Only he didn’t say butt. He said the A-word that rhymes with “big mouth bass.”

Whoa. Dude. Settle. Mister President. Sir. You are many things, but Chief Executive of Butt Kicking is not what we hired you for. Right now we need that calm and collected smartypants whose idea of “wild and crazy” is working until his deodorant nearly expires. Cooler than the other side of the pillow.

Dubyah reminded us of an entitled cackling jock giving the geeks and nerds two-handed wedgies in the high school bathroom. You, however, are here to teach those dorks how to retire to an unoccupied stall and rearrange themselves before reentering the hallway. You are here encourage them to study hard and get the job  that pays enough to turn the wedgie giver’s dad’s GM dealership into a solar panel production facility.

You don’t need to answer to Spike Lee’s outbursts. What, you’re going to base our foreign policy on an offhand remark by Delroy Lindo? America doesn’t need Harrison Ford or The Incredible Hulk flying out of the cargo door of Air Force One. Not even the Credible Hulk. Look at Congress. We got plenty of Hulks.

Besides, you don’t wear the right kind of butt-kicking shoes. For that, you need cowboy boots. With those beautiful Italian loafers, a person runs the risk of spraining a foot. Or a midterm election.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comedian who often writes. This being an egregious example.
His new CD, Raging Moderate from Stand Up! Records, now available on both iTunes and Amazon. Coming this fall: Where the Rogue Things Go.