The Morning After the Morning After the Night of the Return of the Living Undead: This Time, It’s Personal.

I’ve been away for a while, locked in a cabin amidst the blissful surroundings of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge while writing the polish of my new film The Obama Witch Project 2: This Time, It’s Personal, but now I return and what do I find?

She’s ba-ack, Barack.

It seems like just yesterday that our beloved Bambi was all dressed up like a kid on the first day of school, jaunting off to strange places with names even funnier than his. And although wet behind the ears, he wowed ‘em wherever he went. There he was, marching smartly beside Afghan president Karzai, smiling that winningly goofy smile of his, and every media outlet I saw said that he was “polishing his foreign-policy credentials.” It was like that scene in Evita where Evita sails off to Europe to show Franco and Mussolini that she’s not just some cheap tart, but the high-flying, adored First Lady of Argentina on a rainbow high!

There he was again, patting Nouri al-Maliki on the back at the presidential palace in Baghdad and gesturing to the Iraqi leader to sit down, like al-Maliki was visiting the Obamas at their mansion in Hyde Park or something. I mean, the man looked very comfortable ordering Bush’s stooge — excuse me, the brave Iraqi leader who’s enthusiastically endorsed the Obama Peace Plan — around. Downright presidential, in fact.

Sure, he shot hoops instead of visiting the jackbooted thugs — excuse me, the maimed and wounded victims of Bush’s misguided foreign-policy blunder — in that military hospital, but he made up for it by cozying up to Sarkozy in France and trying on No. 10 Downing St. for size while in London.

The trip all culminated, of course, in the great speech at the Siegessäule in Berlin (which poor New York Times columnist Bob Herbert mistook for both the Washington Monument and the Leaning Tower of Pisa), which sent 200,000 Germans into paroxysms of ecstasy not seen since Leni Riefenstahl was toting a camera. Nobody feels more like a citizen of the world than the Germans, especially when they’re hungry and don’t have time to phone ahead to Paris or Rome for reservations.

And yet… where was the bounce? Obama’s statistically insignificant lead over that wrinkly old white dude, what’s his name, barely budged. And then the usual Rethuglican Smear Machine critics starting carping that the former Barry Soetero didn’t have what it takes, wasn’t a closer, blah blah blah. Luckily, the major media took Che’s suggestion from the Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s musical, when Evita comes a cropper before her London visit: “You’d better get out the flags and fix a parade. Some kind of coming home in triumph is expected.”

[cue music from Jaws]

So it was three cheers for BO Jr., and then it was off to Hawaii, where he could revisit the scenes of his youth as a poor half-black sharecropper, or a pampered half-white kid attending the tony Punahou School, or some combination of both, while a leggy Paris Hilton in a bikini was making goo-goo eyes at John McCain and proposing the most perfectly sensible energy policy anyone ever heard. Do both? Now that’s bipartisanship.

And then…

[Jaws music gets louder]

I get back from frisking and frolicking with the caribou in Alaska — who, by the way, totally agree with Harry Reid that no way we should drill there — to learn that Hillary is actually going to have her name put in nomination at the Denver convention. Worse, Obama has agreed. When even Maureen Dowd can see at a glance that this is not a good idea, brother Obi-wan — you’ve got a problem!

I mean, my goodness, has the man never seen one of my movies? Has he never seen any horror movie? This may well turn out to be the dumbest move since the president of Georgia double-dog dared the old KGB goon, Vlad “the Impaler” Putin, to do something about South Ossetia while George Bush was fanny-patting the American women’s beach volleyball team in Beijing.

Yes, my friends, the lady senator from the great state of New York, Eliot Spitzer, Governor — excuse me, I mean what’s his name, no, not McGreevey, the other guy, you know who I’m talking about — will be formally nominated as one of the two Democrat candidates for president of these United States.

On paper she has no chance. But the Clintons, like the Yankees, don’t play the games on paper. They play them for real and they play them for keeps. Bill Clinton didn’t grow up at the feet of the greatest gangster of the Prohibition era, Owney Madden, hanging out at the Southern Club & Grill down there in the delightfully corrupt little city of Hot Springs, Ark., and not learn a thing or two about how to mug a fellow and yet maintain plausible deniability.

And while Barack Hussein Obama II Barry Soetero Barack Hussein Obama Jr., may in fact be a card-carrying Chicago/Daley-machine hack — did you notice how he dredged up an Irish ancestor the other day? — he’s got nothing on the former Goldwater Girl with an accent flatter than the real place in Kansas where Barry’s mom, Stanley, grew up.

Sure, Hillary’s fat and waddly and screechy and gives pantsuits a bad name. Sure, she’s the kind of gal my dad’s generation knew back in college in the Sixties, the one who wore granny dresses and never shaved her legs and slept with the poetry professor and had a “War is Harmful to Children and Other Living Things” poster on her dorm room wall and gave the Black Power salute to the other white kids and worshipped Saul Alinsky and Herbert Marcuse and always argued in class that communism had never really been given a proper try, so why not here and why not now?

But that generation was pretty tough. O.K., they lost Vietnam to a bunch of guys in pajamas but they took to the streets in Hillary’s hometown of Chicago and bloodied the pigs pretty good. They blew up buildings — Bambi’s mentor, Bill Ayers, comes to mind — and even killed some people. Charlie Manson gave the whole movement a bad name and the Rolling Stones didn’t help when that black guy got murdered at Altamont, but you see what I’m driving at: Hillary’s minions know how to party.

[Jaws music is deafening now. We may or may not glimpse a Great White Shark swimming menacingly toward the camera.]

So that’s why I’m not going to Denver. Not only do I already know the ending of this movie — Gidget Goes Hawaiian vs. Predator — but I’m already back to work on a new picture.

For, sure enough, no sooner was I back home in my palatial pad in Echo Park when the phone rang and what do you know it was my agent, asking whether I could get right to work on a new picture: The Morning After the Morning After the Night of the Return of the Living Undead: This Time, It’s Personal.

I said, sure. And, by the way, did I mention it’s set in Denver?

— David Kahane is the nom de cyber of a wildly successful, incredibly handsome A-list writer in Hollywood. He writes these columns under a pseudonym because he doesn’t want his mother to know what he does for a living.