My ObumR of a Nightmare

My ObumR of a Nightmare


So I had this terrible nightmare that mixed up the movie Music Man, among other things, with Obama.

It had seemingly eerie prophetic tones to it... why not? If conscience secular rung bells or hope and change can eschew nothing but sugar and spice, you have to allow my uplifting nihilist Swedish black and white, a gimmie.

I’ll have to review it in snips and bites because...it was a hazy dream, remember.

After a squawky stand-up argument amongst bloated salesmen journalists blocking the aisle ways of a fast travelling train starts to wind down, the brakes are suddenly applied and without coming to a complete stop a tall lanky man confidently jumps from the car door.

Having just pretended to be one of them, the salesman surprisingly offers his adieu with his middle finger as they press their noses up against the glass for once in genuine astonishment.

It’s been a long haul with many a mystery stop for the salesman to finally arrive under the Stars and Stripes flying high over the wooden dusty platform.

But with a smirk of a smile and a glint in his eye he mistakenly feels a swelling confidence, somewhere in his bowels, that his time has come.

He sees an oversized donkey wondering aimlessly down the road and is moved to straddle the big ass for the few steps to his destination of town hall.

He morphs into different characters as he plods along, Lincoln, Washington, Churchill, poppa Kennedy, young Kennedy, younger Kennedy, cousin Kennedy, Lenin, Stalin, Zedong, Carter, Clinton (H) and finally an Anglican priest.

He gets to the town square, gives the donkey a kick off and offers the city hall janitor his sincerest greeting with a bow approaching prostration.

Still transfigured as a priest, his face brightly aglow ....from his Bic lighter he proceeds to commend a stinking, long rotted corpse of a hog that has a surreal pasty look of Ted Kennedy to it.

He walks around the open casket waving his cigarette over top stopping to blow a few rings (hopefully no new faddish Andersonian slip here) and finishes with a tap of his ash before telling the 'pal'-bearers Matthews Maddow Oberman Shultz and a fork lift to scoot him quickly off screen.

Now I take part in my own dream and I am at the library asking for Madam librarian to stamp my book. I’m told by the secretary, Mel Gibson, that Master Wizbang Jennings is too busy right now, but will he sincerely suffice?

Hearing Madeline Albright singing, “I Could Have Danced All Night” I look to the mezzanine and Kevin Jennings is waltzing with Anderson Cooper while Robert Gibbs is giggling in the children’s section, and a guy with a golf club is hanging out under woman’s issues.

Anderson politely asks me to join them for tea and I meekly offer, “ Some other time, eh” as I walk out the door backwards feeling a need not to take my eye off the odd couple.

Back in town, the Mayor is demanding that his minions make the salesman present his credentials and prove he was born in Gary Indiana, when he sees the mysterious stranger offering flash cash taken as townspeople down payments for free loans, hospitals, new schools and affordable housing for foxes without lairs.

In exchange for the Ayers guide to the think-system, the biased lone town reporter agrees not to investigate anything on the mysterious man’s past including the Spit Spot School for Etiquette and Speech by Teleprompter, for today’s ambitious Marxists on the move.

Seeing that the town prominent elderly woman folk are swooning for the smooth talking smoker the Mayor orders, "not a poop" out of Lady Pal-oozie and for Lady Barbara to get her boxers back into a snit.

Opie is wondering down the road muttering, with his head doing 360's and the Mayor curses, "What wise guy ever got the spooky kid to speak?".

Fade in to the mysterious stranger hanging out alone with the town teens as he stares at the Mayor's daughter’s midriff and offers some nationally televised, hushed side- mouthed peer-cool advice to the girl and the town’s fonz/bestest ballet dancer and baton twirler, “Hey guys, no two young people should ever be burdened or tied together with that. Here’s a roll of flash money, you know what the responsible thing to do now.”

Just before I woke up I noticed this hairy weed grotesquely risen above all the low lying weeds. Though it was a calm day, these weeds that actually grimaced were all leaning into a non-existent strong wind with a constipated look of anxiety.

The hairy weed formed a small lower mouth and suddenly stood erect, but all that came out was the sound one makes when one puts a blade of grass between ones thumbs and cupped hands and blows into it.

The last scene was the grand salesman clothed in nothing but the American flag as he marched an endless parade twelve abreast onto a distant horizon of towering flames and to the smell of Hugo Chavez sweat and sulfer.

Paul Gordon