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Who Pulls Obamas Strings?
J.D. Longstreet Thursday, August 9, 2012
Barry’s not calling the plays. That Soetoro, guy, you know, the one we know as Obama, ain’t in charge. He’s a front man, a puppet, a marionette
There is something very telling about an incumbent president asking an “impeached” president to go to bat for him. It’s sort of like someone in court for, oh, jay walking, having a car thief testify as to the character of the accused in court. It’s wildly weird!
Those of us who correctly sized up Obama as a dyed-in-the-wool, set -in-concrete, NARCISSIST—even before his election, and THEN having our suspicions ratified by Obama himself, well, we’re scratching our heads and asking amongst ourselves—WHO, exactly, IS running Obama?
Here’s the thing (as they say): Left to his own devices a man of Obama’s character would NEVER, I mean—NEVER—have someone else come to his rescue in public, especially in public! NEVER!
Yet, with a clatter of hooves, a cloud of dust, and a hearty “Hi-Yo-Democratic Party,” comes the white-haired man of shame, er, I mean, man of fame, he of the “I did not have sex with that woman,” of the spotted dress, of sex in the Oval Office, of licentiousness personified—none other than William Jefferson (Blythe III) Clinton, AKA “ole Bill”—comes riding to Obama’s rescue in full view of the cameras of national and international television.
What’s wrong with this picture? Just about everything. Unfortunately—it will probably work!
Our man of international mystery—Barack Hussein Obama, AKA Barry Soetoro—now President of the United States, must be absolutely furious.
So why is Barry, I mean, Barack, going along with this humiliating slap in the face?
I’m convinced Obama has no say in the matter. He has to do it. It is being forced upon him.
What? How the heck do you force the most powerful man on the planet to suffer this sort of humiliating indignity before the eyes of the world?
The answer is easy.
Barry’s not calling the plays. That Soetoro, guy, you know, the one we know as Obama, ain’t in charge. He’s a front man, a puppet, a marionette. Someone, or some thing, is pulling his strings—and—to keep his rather cushy job he must sit down, shut up, and let the grownups take care of his reelection.
Gotta tell ya, folks, a tale of a guy who comes out of nowhere, leaving a trail of diversions for anyone seeking to nail down his previous life, and winds up as President of the United States, well, if you published it as a book it would, of necessity, be published as a novel, a fictional tale of intrigue, of international skulduggery, an immense flimflam— a con job.
Shut up and drink your kool-aid!