"I've got your back." I've got your back, Obama. How inspiring. How uplifting. How marvelously self-centered.
Not coincidentally, the Great Depression 2.0 is also what's happenin'.
Shut your mouth!
But I'm talking about Barack.
Then we can dig it.
Red SquareWe got your back alright...
Truly, there is no honor among thieves.
Raum Emmanual Goldstein
Head HunterExceptional talent on display, Red Square. How about one with androgynous Liberty bent over, taking one for the gay team?
Rather a two panel cartoon...
Panel 1 - The face of a brother from "da' hood" bent over and glancing back over his shoulder: "We got yo' back, Obama!" with a look of glee.
Panel 2 - Wide angle of the brother bend over the hood of the Preezie's limo with Dear Reader (AP&PBUH) giving the brotha' a proper rogering: "Well.... I've ALWAYS had your backs!"
or... for the more PG crowd...
Panel 1 - The face of a shirtless field hand straining to tug a mule yoke and glancing back over his shoulder: "We got yo' back, Obama!" with a look of glee.
Panel 2 - Wide angle of the field hand toiling to pull a heavy plow while Dear Reader (AP&PBUH) mounted on a smiling DNC Donkey dressed in the bright white duds of a plantation owner (including the wide brimmed panama hat) cracking his whip across the labourer's rear torso: "Well.... I've ALWAYS had your backs!"
Anyone with a more artisitic flare up to the challange?
So people must want to line up to serve him. This reminds me of a story. [ And people with sensitive stomachs are advised to stop here.]
Sam was an oilfield worker who had an extra $100 a week to spend. He'd drink $50 of beer, play pool, and then attend the office of a group of sex workers.
With his $50 he would get the services of a female sex worker for a short while and this happened every week.
He took a cut in pay, though, and only had $50 a week for entertainment. He drank $25 of beer then went to the sex-worker shop and asked for a girl for $25.
The manager, sometimes erroneously called the madam, said, “Sir, this is a respectable sex-workers’ house. We have no $25 women.”
“Well, there’s old Nanski. She’s retired though.”
“I don’t care. I’ll take her. Where is she?”
He followed the directions: he went to the top floor, climbed into the attic, and went down a dark and dusty hall and opened a door. There on the bed was old Nanski, worn out in her duty to the Cossacks, Trotskyites, and Bolsheviks.
She had a certain odor. Since she’d had tertiary syphilis since the first day of Ronald Raygun’s first term, and that was Bush’s fault, both the term and the clap, there was little left of her mind but what there was dropped her to her knees.
He unzipped but he could see the lice doing a square dance in the bald spots of her hair, the ones that didn’t slide down the greasy strands and fall off. She had of course no teeth.
He could find no interest, but he had had beer so he therapeutically emptied his bladder on her, in accordance with the Preventative Care portion of the Affordable CAIR Act.
This happened four weeks in a row, time after time, and he was going mad.
The sixth week he forewent his beer drinking and took all $50 to the office of the sex-workers.
“Now. I have $50. I’ll take that redhead I like.”
“Sorry, sir; Texas A&M is in town and all the girls are busy.”
“Yes sir, except of course Old Nanski. The boys weren’t interested in her.”
“I don’t care. I’ll do it. And I know the way.”
He mounted the stairs and went into old Nanski’s room. She got down on her knees and he exposed himself, but he could see even more families of lice and was even less interested.
Since he hadn’t had any beer, he did not need to relieve himself, so he merely zipped up his pants and turned around.
Then Old Nanski asked, “What’s the matter, honey, don’t you love me any more?”
All citizens must learn to love Nanski.