Beat me Barack!

Gosh. The world became very comical all of a sudden.

I land in Toronto, Canada, and I am watching television and they are showing all these white-haired white men who lead various political parties.
Their right-wing prime minister has just shut Parliament to avoid a vote of no confidence. The United States looks more progressive and multicultural than, gulp, Canada.

And then the strange passive-aggressive war for Barack Obama’s soul arrives in Britain. It turns out Obama’s grandfather was tortured by the British for collaborating with the Mau Mau.

This is, of course, deeply thrilling information.

If it had come out before the election, a strange little game would have begun, in which people would say: “Oh! Obama. I do not know why you are not standing there in black leather, whips, chains, African tattoos with a cat-o’-nine-tails and beating us. Beat us and say ‘kneel oppressor’.”

And Obama would say, in an interview with Bob Mcintyre of The New York Times, who is convinced that Obama sees colonial prison guards whenever he sees a British man: “Well, Bob, I am really interested in energy policy, ‘cos, like I am a bit of a sober geek and I like the idea of fixing stuff, and reading books and stuff.”

And the Times correspondent would say: “I am bending over Barack and taking my shirt off. You can beat me hard. Beat me for slavery, for colonialism and torture.”

And Barack says: “So, I was reading this book about Abraham Lincoln and thinking I could get a bipartisan team of people who are usually rivals and get the best minds from all areas to work together and try to fix the falling economy.

“I am reading all kinds of arcane economics stuff right now and man that stuff is fascinating.”

And the Times correspondent will growl: “You barbarian you. Beat the door down and attack me. While we sit here eating organic free-range anti-apartheid grapes, debating whether fuel-efficient Toyotas support Japanese fascism, which is always something that might just pop out of somewhere.

“We are a little bored and need some whip action. Immigration refuses to let the barbarians in who will give us release: a beating and then a kind of climactic forgiveness, where you can say, arise, slave, serve me and I shall be good to you. Please beat me Barack.”

And Barack looks up absent-mindedly and says: “Hey man your skin is really sunburnt. I know this organic remedy, they make it out of jojoba oil, which you know can be grown in Detroit when the car companies are falling apart. Jojoba oil can do amazing stuff to the engines of cars. Have you read that Yale paper on the jojoba engine?”

And the Times correspondent, crying now, says: “Oh Barack, you are too good to me. Don’t pretend on my behalf. I know your people are noble and forgiving people. But release your inner colonial anger.”

Obama will say: “So then you know I would love to build networks with successful Africans in America and Africa so we have the best ideas to try to fix things there —”

And then John Pilger barges into the room, his beat-up and muscular body carrying bleeding wounds from his volunteer work as a cotton picker and field slave in Virginia. He beats up the Times correspondent and kicks his neo-liberal ass out. He lifts his fist and starts to punch Obama in the face: “Take that you Uncle Tom, working with the slave masters there in the big White House.”

Obama says: “Hey, are you the Shiatsu massage guy? Could you do what you just did? I have a kink in my back from reading big books and long, funny policy documents. Shit. What’s all that stuff on your back? I have this great jojoba oil remedy; it has a little witch hazel.

“Don’t worry man, we will retool Virginia and soon you will be assembling cars made from recycled corn stalks, which are all connected to the internet. I know a guy in Silicon Valley who makes them already and they have really cool DVD players. Do you like Coldplay?”

Pilger cries: “Take that, Uncle Tom,” with his fist raised.

Michelle Obama walks into the room and Pilger starts crying: “Ohhh Michelle, will you forgive me for slavery? Will you leave this Uncle Tom and marry me? I was a slave! I volunteered. I bled!”

Michelle pauses for a moment, and then says: “Do you do shiatsu massage?”

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