Work for Prez. Obama - The Long-legged Mac Daddy

Hail to the Chief! Face it, the new Prez. is a pimp. Not a playa' like Slick Willie, the Presidential Smoothe Operator. Rather, he's down for the cause, unlike the previous Bush & Cheney regime. Anyhow, Shelly and I were busy filling out job applications to work for the New Man.

"What sets you apart from other applicants?" the question read. Black space! Emptiness! Nothing came to me immediately. Dejected, I looked at my socks. My left heel was hanging through one and my right big toe pushed through the other. My jeans haven't been washed in a month and I was wearing a T-shirt from a 1988 Guns and Roses concert. Put it this way, I was better dressed than Shelly.

"Shelly," I blurted out,"What sets you apart?"

His eyes twinkled, and I could tell he was musing. "First of all," he said,"I'm hung like a horse." He went on: "Look, I'm not saying I'm Ron Jeremy, or anything like that, but I'm definitely gifted."

"Write that one down," I told him, and I'll be damned, he did!

The next question asked: "Tells us about an experience that demonstrates a special skill or ability."

I chuckled, and Shelly prodded me to speak my mind.

"Well, I was laid young," I said, smiling, feeling fuzzy about that special day.

"Hey, don't leave me hanging! What's the deal?"

"All right, man... You remember Mrs. Wahlheimer?"

"Oh hell yeah!," Shell said, standing up, cupping his man-boobs, "The one with the big boobs."

"Yeah, her, the piano teacher. She looked good. Smelled good."

In an instant, there I was 15, sitting on the piano stool. Mrs. Wahlheimer next to me. Her long, dark curly hair. Red lipstick lips. Curves. Oh, that whiskey voice. She was instructing me to play some sort of C-scale. All I could do was to shift back and forth on the seat, trying to hide the rise in my pants. She noticed it, but didn't say a damn thing.

The next time we met, I was newly coiffed and fastidiously dressed. With slick backed black hair and a red tie around my neck, I decided to get a bit bold. I unzipped my fly, and I made sure not to wear underwear.

"Play that again," she said, touching my shoulder. We looked each other in the eyes. Suddenly, I had a lead pipe in my pants. It snuck right out the barnyard door. She looked down at it, and looked back in my eyes. Oh my Lord, was written all over her face. I just smiled, and let my fingers do the talking. Gentle melody, warm chords, even tempo - the W. A. Mozart K.69 was picture perfect. And she moved in closer to me. It was dead quiet, the calm before the storm, and I could hear her beating heart. For once I didn't call her Mrs. Wahlheimer; I called her Judy. Make that - Judy, baby.

She wanted it; she needed it. Husband always drunk. Too many kids to attend to. Beauty unappreciated. A desire unsatisfied. The best general fights when the conditions for victory are clear. The time was now. Bayonet fixed, I charged in like Dough Boy. Hurrah!!! A knight in shining armor to the rescue. A tonic for her lonely condition.

Contact! I took her hand and led it from the righteous path. Role reversal. I was man; I was in command, sucking her lips and petting her body. Heavy petting. Swooned, titillated and submissive. She melted like butter. It was hot and dangerous.

Her husband snoring in the next room. One of the babies was crying. My mom would be showing up in about ten minutes. Fuck it, was my attitude. Every minute can be a lifetime. Take the chance! I slide up her skirt, and pulled down her ruby-red panties. We tumbled to the floor... If I was going down, I was going down in a blaze of glory.

Then G busted a move.

Suddenly, I came to with a big, shit-eatin' grin.

"That good, huh?" Shell inquired.

"Yeah, man, it was sweet music." I mumbled, trailing off.

I was long-legged Mac Daddy. Presidential. Head of State. Probably not scoring a job in the White House. So, I suggested that we get a drink at the cheapest bar in Cleveland: The Ugly Broad. As I ordered my eighth round, I swore I heard Hail to the Chief. A black cat crossed my path. I went into the pisser and looked at my smile in cracked the mirror. I swallowed a stick of gum. Oh play it again, Sam.

When I came back upstairs, Shell said Obama had dropped by the bar, just popping by.

"How in the fuck did I miss it?" I exclaimed.

"Hey, man, I shook hands with the President... and you laid Mrs. Wahlheimer, Mr. President," Shell said, like a man who had a new White House job. So we sucked up the moment in foamy suds and salty preztels.

God Bless America! Perpetratin' and not hatin', word!