Reader's Choice: Kickin' it with the Prez...

[Editor's note: I took a vote of anyone who happened to happen on this site, and apparently people like to read about the absurd above all things. So here's a story that's completely that. Enjoy, and don't forget to vote on other crazy crap over in the sidebar!]

So, I had this thought about what it would be like to take an hour or so out of President Obama's busy schedule. What would we do? What would we talk about? What would happen?

Without basing any of my thoughts firmly in reality, the event has already taken place in my head... here are the details.

I walked into the Oval Office, led in by Rahm Emmanuel, to see the back of the president's chair behind the Resolute Desk as he looked out the very large windows and took an even larger breath... most likely in anticipation of yet another asshole that wanted to bend his ear about something and waste the time he could be spending on fixing all the shit going on in the world today.

He spun around slowly to see me wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a solid colored short sleeve t-shirt underneath a striped long sleeve button down shirt that was untucked and wrinkled. He was taken aback a bit, and a hint of confusion could be seen in his eyes. But he remained cool.

Rahm introduced me, telling the President I had won a crazy contest or some such shit... no one was really sure why I was there, only that I had an hour of his time.

"Even Hillary and Bill together don't get an hour," he said, not completely convinced of the situation. "Not even when there's a crisis overseas."

"Well, I don't know what to fuckin' tell you," I said. "Shit happens.  It's not like I'm asking you to be my Facebook friend or something."

He nodded and shrugged, begrudgingly accepting his fate for the next sixty minutes or however long it's going to take in order to tell this goddamn story. He glanced at his watch and stared back at me.

I sat down in one of the chairs facing his desk, reached out my arms, and started banging on some of the wood panels in front of me with the palms of my hands.

"Excuse me," he implored. "Just what are you doing?" He remained cool.

"Looking for fucking secret panels, what else? I saw Nick Cage doing all sorts of crazy things with this desk and wanted to check it out for myself."

"Ehhh... Look," he started, pausing for a couple of seconds. "I can assure you that this desk doesn't have any secret compartments or anything of the sort."

"Yeah, right. If it did, I'm sure you'd tell me, right?"

With a quick, hard look in his eyes, I knew I was right. I kept searching the desk until I was satisfied. Then I kicked back in the chair, gazing around the room to get a feel for it.

"Can I call you Barry?" I asked.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Okay... Mr. President," I sniped back. "Let's get out of this office. It gives me the fucking creeps."

"Me too," he said, raising his eyebrows as if to call me a looney.

He clearly hated me already. Everything in his body language said he hated me, not that I could really blame him for it. Obviously his first impression of me wasn't awesome, but maybe I could turn him around without being a complete fucking psycho sycophant like all of his political butt-buddies that try to leach off his popularity, at least until his numbers start to go down.

I'm sorry, but I won't treat "famous" or "important" people any differently than I treat my friends. My friends are far more important to me than any person that I'll meet once in my life. Who gives a rat's ass what the President of the United States of America thinks about one guy?

We walked through the West Wing, the President showing me this room and that as he walked like his suit was over-starched. But he was cool. Kind of.

"If I wanted a fucking tour of the White House, I'd find a better guide. Let's do something fun."

He stopped in his tracks, and the level of contempt he had for me had just grown tenfold. He had that look that fathers give their kids when being completely unreasonable, just before they ask, "Well what the fuck do you want to do about it?" He was just about to lose his cool.

"How about some hoops?" I replied, watching as his face was tightening into crazy knots. "You know, a little one on one, a game or two of horse... whatever." He looked at me and shrugged in agreement. "Or we could go bowling. I think we both suck pretty hard at that. Though my top score is a 174."

He smiled rigidly, then shook his head and winced. Then his shoulders dropped as he regained a small sense of humor about everything and lightened the fuck up. I was just glad to be making a little bit of progress with the dude. We quickly changed and warmed up a bit, and were ready for action.

Of course when it came to playing basketball with the leader of the free world, I completely sucked ass. Then again, basketball really isn't my thing. I'm okay on defense, but offensively I can't do jack squat. I was guarding him all right, and got a few tough rebounds without managing to kill myself. And I was especially relieved when the secret service didn't get in the way when I gave him a couple of elbows to the rib cage.

I had the ball at the top of the key and checked it. He passed it back and I assumed the pre-dribble pose, moving the ball quickly to my hip, elbows out, ready for action. I pump faked the three pointer without a dribble and he didn't bite. Fuck.

So I dribbled out, and at first he backed off, giving me room to roam outside the three point line. I wasted some time there, looking for a way in. I knew that if I could try for a layup, there's about a 90% chance that I'd make it... though under pressure maybe it's more like 75%, maybe even less. But he was blocking the lane pretty well, plus he's taller than me and has a damn good reach.

Plus, he's good at the game and I suck big hairy moose cock.

I played hoops in Junior High (13-14 years old, for those folk who don't fully fucking understand the american school system), and was the point guard for the team. In two years I managed to score a whopping four points, half of which were made at the free throw line.  But I was still nicknamed after Kareem Abdul-Jabbar... I had the sports glasses.  Of course, with me they smashed the first syllables together so that I was Cream Abdul-Jabbar.  The alabaster skin didn't improve my rep.  

They also called me Casper.  Assholes.

I don't watch college hoops or the pros, and haven't been to watch a game since watching my little brother in high school a couple years back. I haven't even touched a basketball in more than a year, despite having a hoop above the garage doors at my house.

So when it came to my "move" on President Barrack Obama, I failed miserably. He rushed me, tipped and stripped the ball away from me, and otherwise humiliated me on the court. My shots were those of pre-schoolers compared to his smooth style. I would hurl and fling the ball toward the hoop watching it bounce off the rim (along with a few air balls) as he gracefully glided the ball into the net, swishing it elegantly.

But I did score once. I had the ball at the top of the key, and started talking smack. He had me beat on skill, but I knew that I had the range to say whatever the hell I wanted and he wouldn't be able to retort. Being President and all, he had to play it clean in the war of words.

"Barry," I taunted. "Which way am I gonna go... BARRY?"

He was getting flustered again, I just knew it.

"Dave Barry, Chuck Berry, Barry Manilow, Barry Sobel," I riffed.  "Ping pong balls?  I thought you said King Kong's balls!  Eh, Baaaaaaaaa-rryyyyyyy?"

"Now, look..."

"Look at what.... Baaaa-rryyyy? Cat got your fucking tongue, Baaaaaaaa-rryyyyyyy?"

"Please stop calling me Barry," he said sternly. "How about just plain old Barrack?"

"Okay... Baaaaaaaaaaa-rryyyyyyyyyy," I chanted.

He stood up, giving up his position to take the high moral ground. While he went back on his heels, I lurched forward, taking my first dribbles with my right hand while striking hard into him with my left shoulder as I made my way to the hoop for an easy layup.

I helped him to his feet wearing a smirk the size of Roseanne (formerly Barr)'s underpants. "Suck on that one, Mr. President."

"You got me that time," he laughed as I helped him up. "But I'll win."

I had never been so completely sure of anything in my life before.

The final score was 10-1 and then we played a quick game of horse which I lost of course, of course. He only got an H because I actually sank a lucky bucket by bouncing the ball in from the free throw line. All of my long range hook shots and half court bombs barely ever came even remotely fucking close to the rim while the Prez played a steady game, sinking shot after shot, finishing me off with a slam dunk.

"Do we have a ladder or a fucking trampoline?" I begged.

We talked shit about how badly I sucked, and we told stories of the greatest shots and players of all time. It was an interesting, though lopsided conversation though, mainly because the greatest shots I've ever seen are the ones show on the news with the random guy off the street sinks a half court miracle shot to win a million bucks or whatever.

Of course on the court all the worries of the day can easily slip away in these friendly competitions. That's why we humans made up games in the first place.

When we finished, sweat was pouring off my forehead like the Minnehaha Falls while my new friend was as calm and cool as a cucumber.

Rahm Emmanuel peeked his head in and signaled the President by tapping his finger on his left wrist.

"Well, Pat," he started. "Look... They're telling me it's time to get back to it."

"Rahm is such a nazi prick," I countered.

"Yeah," he said. "But in a world filled with as many problems we have today, I need people to help keep me on task."

"Crap," I said, dropping my head down. "I didn't get to even eat lunch with you or anything..."

"Look... next time I'll bring the Subway and some soda."

"You Jared Fogle loving mother fucker! No way... we're having a burger and some beers, asshole. And not one of those cheap, piece of shit burgers either. If I'm gonna eat with the damn President, I'm gonna have all the calories I can."

"Then we should have gone bowling," he said grinning as he shook my hand. "I wasn't sure about you at first, but you're a pretty okay guy."

"You're not too bad either, Barry," I said with a shit-eating grin.

"Now look," he started, pointing his politician's thumb the way Bill C. had always done during his term in office. But he didn't finish. He laughed, gave a slight wink, and turned to his chief of staff, heading out the door to leave me alone in an empty room.

That's when I dropped my pants and took a massive shit on the floor.

"Suck on that one Mr. President," I whispered, hearing the S's of my speech bouncing back off the hard walls of the gym. "Suck on that one."

When asked later by the police why I had taken a dump on the floor of the White House, I replied simply that it seemed like the right thing to do and had no political meaning behind it whatsoever. "Hell, I voted for the guy," I said, "and I think he's pretty cool."

"I just thought he could take a fucking joke."

[Editor's Note: Okay... even I'll admit I didn't see that ending coming.  But it is absurd!]