Not in My Back Yard, Mr. President


The New Ramses

NIMBYImagine my surprise when I pulled the SUV into my Midtown garage to see a swarm of reporters, lights and G men in my back yard!

“What’s going on here?” I asked. Suddenly, a tall, thin man turned away from the hubbub to face me. “Barack Obama? What in God’s name are you doing in my backyard?”

“First off, enough of the God stuff. You Southern rubes just can’t leave it alone,” Obama said. “You’re in luck! I picked Memphis for my next backyard campa- er, policy discussion spot. Des Moines and Albuquerque were duds. At least I might get some barbecue here.”

“Well, yes, I have a pork butt on the smoker right now, but I never invited you! This is a home invasion,” I said.

“What’s a home invasion to you is eminent domain to the Fed,” the president said.

“Wait, a minute, I thought you weren’t supposed to eat barbecue. I thought Michelle had you on a strict diet and that the family never lets anything but tofu, broccoli and fish cross your lips.”

“Er, it’s a campa- er, regional thing. I wouldn’t want to insult Memphians.”

As his crew assembled some chairs and tables they unloaded from their truck, one of them yelled, “Uh oh. There’s a problem with the dog.”

“Problem, what problem? He’s friendly and only a puppy and …,” I started.

“No, no, no! This doesn’t fit the profile of a house the president would visit. Who messed up here? We only associate with rescued dogs, and he isn’t one. He’s not politically correct! Get him out of here!”

“But, but, but Bo’s not a rescue dog and you told the public that was the kind you were getting,” I said to the president.
“If you don’t think coming from Senator Ted Kennedy’s compound wasn’t a rescue, you’re dreaming,” he replied.

“What’s with this backyard stuff,” I asked one of the men. “Carter did it in 1980, but that didn’t work out so well.”

“Between you and me and the media, this isn’t working out too well either,” said the aide.

People began to assemble in my backyard. People I didn’t recognize as neighbors but a politically correct cross section of America. I was surprised to find a Hawaiian Jewish transvestite here, but you never know.

“Why don’t you go back to the beer summits? Didn’t that work out?” I asked.

“Not really. All anyone really cared about was what kind of beer they were drinking.”

“Well why did you choose Midtown Memphis?” I asked.

“Isn’t everyone here a Democrat?” the aide asked.

“Well, no.” I said. “I’m a Republican.”

“God! Doesn’t anyone ever vet these people?”

“About as well as you vetted Timothy Geithner?” I offered. “Listen, have you thought about a Fireside Chat? Obama would like to be the new FDR, wouldn’t he?”

“In a Blackberry/Twitter world? Why not use a word processor while you’re listening to your 8-track tapes,” he scoffed.

Suddenly, it began to rain and all heck broke loose.

“It’s just a pop up storm,” I said. “It will pass.”

“Well, no one really had any questions, anyhow, did they?” the aide said. “And the teleprompter is getting wet.”

“I have a few; more than a few,” I said.

“Later,” Obama said. “If it stops soon, I could still get a round of golf in. Anyone know of a good course?”

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