You’ve probably been wondering where I am and what I’m up to, living my glamorous life here in Hollywood — an endless round of nightclubs, parties, movie openings, and ten-buck lunches at little Vietnamese burger joints in strip malls when I’m between projects — but the truth is: nothing much. Like His Serene Majesty the Emperor Barack Hussein Obama II, Lord of the Flies, Keeper of the Hoops, Master of the Greens, Bringer of Kinetic Military Action, Vacationer-in-Chief, Slayer of Osama, Atomizer of the Economy, and Protector of the Holy Cities of Honolulu and Chicago, I am on vacation, except minus the armored personnel carrier buses, Air Force One and Two, the Blue Heron Farm, and the media horde.
Not that I’m standing in one of those unemployment lines in Atlanta, fainting from the heat. My vacation is more of a fashionable staycation, which is why I’m writing this from the pool deck at my palatial pad here in Echo Park, where the weather is always exemplary, the Dodgers are right next door, and the stillness of the California nights is only occasionally disturbed by the sounds of gunfire.
But it’s not just me who’s on vacation. You can stand at the intersection of Wilshire and Doheny and swing the Ishtar trailer in any direction and hit an unemployed writer on his way over to the WGA screening room to see a movie somebody else wrote.
Except for us A-listers and sequel specialists, nobody’s working, and I hear that’s pretty much true in the rest of the country, although our problems are of course much more serious than yours. After all, you can always get a green job digging a ditch someplace, whereas we are staring at the loss of an entire fantasy world based on your appetite for comic-book superheroes, video games, graphic novels, and Olivia Wilde in various stages of deshabille.
Nevertheless, no matter how tough times may seem, I want to assure my fans on the right that we out here in L.A. have not lost our faith in the Punahou Kid. After all, this is a town where every third Prius still bears a “Kerry-Edwards” bumper sticker, which is our way of sticking it to the man for what happened in Ohio in 2004. It’s true that some weak sisters have stripped the souvenir Obama insignia off their cars and their script covers, but they quickly discover that henceforth they are regarded as enemies of the people and so find themselves on the completely nonexistent industry blacklist and, shortly thereafter, out of work forever, the ungrateful bastards.
But Dave, I can hear you odious wingnuts asking, how are those poor doomed souls any different than the rest of you anti-American show people lolling by the Pacific breakers as you await your unemployment checks? After all, isn’t this what you get for feeding the public a steady diet of anti-Bush war movies, anti-war Bush movies, and Conan the Barbarian? Everybody in Real America’s got better uses for their dwindling supply of disposable income than to plunk down $80 or more for four tickets, a couple of hot dogs, soft drinks, and some greasy popcorn, and call it a night out with the wife and kids.
Naturally, I am totally unsympathetic to that argument. Out here, we regard it as your patriotic duty to support Hollywood, since we will promptly recycle the cash you’ve won by the sweat of your brow working in some Dickensian coal-fired electric plant right back to King Barry and his minions at the DNC. In other words, we put country before party, unlike you bitter dead-enders who are unaccountably resisting the Fundamental Transformation that we know is good for you.
Which I think accounts for your Faux-News outrage against Barry’s well-deserved vacation/holy month of Ramadan observance on Martha’s Vineyard. With visions of a Frankfurt School apotheosis dancing in his head, the bestselling author, lifestyle billionaire, and the very personification of Vibrant Multiculturalism has been working tirelessly on the tearing down of the downright mean land formerly known as Amerika and replacing it with a kingdom of clean milk and cleaner honey for all. Party at Warren Buffett’s house!
Luckily, most of you morons haven’t figured this out yet, which is why the slow-boiling-frog approach we’re using is working so well. You may not remember, but — with the exception of Carter’s one term and Bubba’s two — “America” has been ruled by Rethuglicans since Nixon beat Humbert Humbert — sorry, I mean Hubert Horatio Humphrey — in 1968. The EPA, OSHA, and whole host of other regulatory agencies were cooked up by your guys, and it’s been Barry’s genius to use your own weapons against you, turning what you thought was a shield against toxic air and Hudson River water into a terrible swift sword with which to bring down your whole rotten capitalist edifice. Thanks, Tricky!
You see, as that great Tammany macher, George Washington Plunkitt, would have said had he lived long enough, “liberals was born to rule,” and rule we will, one way or the other. All you have to do is believe.
Green jobs? There are millions of them out there, don’t you know, just waiting to happen were it not for the super-rich who want granny to choke to death on fossil-fuel pollution while Paul Ryan does his best Tommy Udo imitation and chucks her and her Medicare-provided wheelchair off Point Dume while cackling madly about balanced budgets.
Immigration? We all know the best thing to happen to this country since Ted Kennedy heroically decided that entry into the U.S. of KKKA was a civil right that ought to be extended to all the peoples of world, especially the ones underrepresented among the so-called Founding Fathers, has been the open border with Mexico — a development that has had genuine bipartisan support from both the beetle-browed troglodytes at the Wall Street Journal and the noble progressives at the New York Times. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, nothing, if you don’t count the demolition of the American labor movement, which has priced itself out of the market in the face of so-called “illegal” competition and yet somehow keeps funneling money to us, the architects of their destruction. Exhibit A: Detroit, Mich., where a thriving, integrated middle class has vanished, leaving the finest residential architecture in the country to collapse as tumbleweeds blow down Woodward Avenue. But it’s for a good cause.
Well, nothing, if you don’t count the soaring unemployment rate among African-Americans. Their nuclear families smashed, their illegitimacy rate soaring to 72 percent, up from 19 percent in 1940, their educational standards falling thanks to our “education reforms,” they’re not even America’s largest minority group anymore, and their influence and importance is only going to shrink in the years to come as Mexico takes up permanent residence in California, Arizona, and Texas. But it’s for a good cause. Viva la Reconquista!
Well, nothing, if you don’t count the annihilation of the kinds of well-paying manufacturing jobs that brought millions of white and black Americans out of poverty and into the middle class. But it’s for a good cause.
Well, nothing, if you don’t count the driving down of the dollar, soaring electrical rates, gas prices that will never come down, the wipeout of the Gulf states’ economies, and the bankrupting of the treasury. But it’s for a good cause.
Gaia forbid you should only wake the freak up and see what’s happening. You won’t, however, because except for Last Action Hero, characters in movies never realize they’re, you know, actually in the movie. And, brother, are you ever in this one: Udo Roi, or, The Obama Presidency: This Time, It Really Is Personal.
—David Kahane wishes all of you who are unemployed, or whose houses are underwater, or whose families are living in homeless shelters and eating in soup kitchens nothing but the best. You can receive his personal condolences by writing to him at firstname.lastname@example.org. Just remember that you had it coming.