Now the true story of yesterday’s press conference by President Obama can be told.
The following manscript was found in a totally trashed V.I.P. Suite at the Mahaneohelakawakahui Grand Hotel. naturalfake’s research division has confirmed it’s authenticity:
Pebble Beach… shit; I’m still only in Pebble Beach… Every time I think I’m gonna wake up back on the 9th hole at Augusta.
When I was home after my first PGA tour, it was worse. I’d wake up and there’d be nothing. No threesome. No girI-on-girl action. Nothing. Hardly said a word to my wife, until she beat the crap outta me with a 5-iron while I snoozed on Ambien then wrecked my SUV.
When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting a threesome going. I’m here a week now… waiting for a tournament…or a hooker….getting softer as the Viagra wears off.
Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute James Nitties squats on the green, he gets stronger. Each time I looked around the walls, I think how Nitties rhymes with titties and I want to get a threesome going…three redheads….matching drapes and carpet……and whipped cream….yeah.
Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a game, and for my sins, they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service or a $5000 a night prostitute. It was a real choice game, and when it was over, I never wanted another.
I was going to the worst place in the world, the Kaneohe Klipper Golf Course and I didn’t even know it yet.
Hours away and a couple of miles in a taxi up to a course that snaked around Kaneohe Bay like a teleprompter cable plugged straight into Obama. It was no accident that I got to be the caretaker of President Barack Hussein Obama’s teleprompter any more than being back in Pebble Beach with Swedish twins was an accident. There is no way to tell his story without telling my own. And if his story really is unprecedented, then so is mine.
I met with the Secretary Treasurer of the Kaneohe Klipper Golf Course Greens Committee. He told me the rules.
“Your mission is to proceed up the cart path in a Kaneohe Klipper V.I.P. golf cart. Pick up President Obama’s path at the 7th hole, follow it and learn what you can along the way. When you find the President, infiltrate his foursome by whatever means available and terminate the President’s golf game.”
Terminate the golf game?
“Obama’s out there operating without any decent restraint, totally beyond the pale of any acceptable golfing conduct. Driving into the players ahead of him. Not replacing his divots. Camping over night on the greens. Taking mulligans every other shot. Cutting across fairways. Throwing his ball out of the sand traps. And he is still on the course with with that same group of hackers. He never leaves. He’s been playing for three days straight! Like….like he’s avoiding something.”
The Secretary Treasurer of the Greens Committee looked me straight in the eye.
“Terminate the game with extreme prejudice.”
“You understand, Mr Woods, that this round of golf does not exist, nor will it ever exist….”
“Oh, of course, as promised here’s your 5 gallon jar full of Viagra. And three gallon jar of Cialis. Ten pounds of Ambien. A-a-a-and a case of Skittles…”
The circus midgets?
“They’ll be in your hotel room Mr Woods. Just as soon as you end that infernal game.”
I loaded my bag onto the V.I.P. golf cart. A special piece of equipment, too.
My caddy had that thousand yard stare. He’d seen too much. Too many double bogeys. Too many bad tippers.
As he led me to the V.I.P. golf cart, he said, “Never get out of the cart……unless you’re gonna, you know, hit the ball or something.”
“Never get out of the cart…” Absolutely goddamn right! Unless you were goin’ to hit the ball or something… Obama got out of the cart. He split from the whole fuckin’ program.
We headed for the seventh hole. At the sixth, my caddy pointed.
It was Obama’s caddy. He staggered around shirtless. His pants cut-off at the knees. Little Nike swooshy thingys painted on his face in mud.
We pulled along side him.
Could we, uh… talk to President Obama?
The caddy freaked out.
“Hey, man, you don’t talk to the President. You listen to him. The man’s enlarged my game. He’s a poet golfer in the classic sense. I mean sometimes he’ll… uh… well, you’ll hand him a nine-iron, right? And he’ll just walk right by you. He won’t even notice you. And suddenly he’ll grab you, and he’ll throw you in the golf cart, and drive all the way onto the green and drop the ball right into the hole without even hitting it and he’ll say, “Hole in zero!…….Do you know that ‘it’ is the middle word in dither? If you can keep procrastinating when all about you are doing their jobs and not waiting on you, if you can trust them. Well then, you never have to do anything!”… I mean I’m… no, I can’t… I’m a little man, I’m a little man, he’s… he’s a great man! An unprecedented man! I should have been a pair of raggedy ass golf shoes scuffing up the marble floors of the Pebble Beach Country Club…”
I left him to his ravings and went to see the Beer Girl. Got a can of Bud Light and offered her $20,000 for a BJ. She agreed.
Once in the bushes, I got a parrot and a woodchuck to join in. Pack of Skittles each.
Seventh hole. We turned the dogleg.
He was close, real close. I couldn’t see him yet, but I could feel him, as if our golf cart were being sucked up the fairway and the green was turning back into rough. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn’t gonna be the way they call it back in Kaneohe Klipper Clubhouse.
And then suddenly, there he was. President Obama. Only he wasn’t President any more.
He’d gone golf.
Stark, raving, golf.
He wore pink tartan-plaid knickbockers with bright yellow over-the-calf argyle socks. A green paisley golfing sweater. Viagra blue cap.
Mr President, you’ve got to stop now. I’m playing through.
He looked at me.
“I expected someone like you. What did you expect? Are you a greenskeeper?”
I’m a golfer.
“You’re neither. You’re the ball boy, sent by the owners of the driving range, to get hit by golf balls…..Now, hand me my niblick!”
I’m playing through, Mr President. Don’t you have any, you know, presidential things to do? Seems like there was a terrorist attack on a plane just a few days ago. You could….I don’t know…address the American people about that. The lousy economy…..There’s Iran….just sayin’.
“I’ve seen horrors…double bogeys on an easy par three. Foozled a drive with my brassie. Duck hooked it with a mashie. But you have no right to call me a duffer. You have a right to play through. You have a right to do that… but you have no right to judge me. It’s impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what chili dipping means. Chili dipping… Chili dipping has a face…”
The woodchuck returned with a couple of friends. And a Burmese python.
I like Burmese pythons.
We left the President to his ravings and went into the bushes.
When I got back, he was still at it.
“…And I remember… I… I… I cried, I wept like some guy who can’t hit it out of the sand trap. I wanted to tear my teeth out; I didn’t know what I wanted to do! And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it… I never want to forget. And then I realized… like I was hit by a drive… like I was hit with a diamond… a diamond golf ball right on my forehead. And I thought, my God… the genius of that! The genius! The will to do that! Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure…”
Yeah…..right. Mr President, I’m playing through. Your game is over.
“But…like I said. This is my war on man-made catastrophe. This is my cunning plan. Nothing man-made catastropheizes the man-made catastrophist like my ignoring them. Nothing disturbs them like my cool, detached demeanor. I shall snub them and they shall be rebuked and join hands with the world to live in perfect harmony- Besides, if the man-made catastrophists allegedly blow up an airplane. That’s only what…two, three hundred people. Only about 5% of the population of America. That’s a risk I’m willing to take….”
I went to the V.I.P. golf cart. Took the special piece of equipment out of the back. Set it up before Obama.
He stared at the teleprompter.
Mr President, the Cialis is starting to kick in. And I’ve got circus midgets waiting. Circus midgets…Besides you have responsibilities.”
The President stared at me wide-eyed as he slowly backed away from the teleprompter. He said,
“As for my responsibilities, I am unconcerned. I am beyond their timid lying morality, and so I am beyond caring.”
But he looked shaken, drained. I put my hands on the keyboard…
Everybody wanted me to do it, him most of all. I felt like he was up there, waiting for me to take the pain away. He just wanted to go out like a golfer, standing up, not like some poor, wasted, rag-assed, over-matched, unqualified President. Even the fairway wanted him gone, and that’s who he really took his orders from anyway.
I knew he couldn’t do any more until he had words. I started typing. He spoke.
“Let go to the 19th hole, gentlemen. It’s Miller time! Oh, and set up for a quick press conference. Make sure Katie Couric and Patty Ann Brown are there. Yeah, and a bottle of Viagra. Hundred milligram tabl-”
I quickly retyped.
“Like I said before, set up a press conference. About the alleged…b-b-bomber.”
It was done. Over.
The President slowly walked toward his golf cart. Got in.
Don’t worry, Mr President. It’ll all be okay….Look! Your wife’s waiting for you at the Club House.
Obama turned to me, his sunken eyes dark pits.
“The horror…….the horror….”
And then he was gone. To his press conference.
I called in a green strike just to be sure.
A dirt bike rally. And Phish concert. The greens, fairways, even the rough would be unusable for months.
Then I broke my clubs, bent my irons one by one. Left for the hotel. Left the fairways forever.
I had circus midgets waiting.