If President Barack Obama Were My Best Friend

Obama and I would exchange low-fives. “What’s up B-Rawk?” I’d ask. I liked to call him B-Rawk.

“Can you please stop calling me B-Rawk?” He didn’t like when I called him B-Rawk. That’s so like him.

We’d be sitting at McDonald’s. B-Rawk said McDonald’s represents a lot of jobs for America and it will help with his public image. Me? I like their fries. I’d be eating a McChicken combo, he’d be eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese combo. Both fine choices. He would ask if we could get our meals super-sized. I said, “Yes we can.”

He didn’t react. The joke was lost on him.

“O-Bomb, the American economy isn’t doing too well. People are angry and frustrated.”

I’d been avoiding bringing this up, but felt like it was time we talked about it. Best friends talk, I’m sure of it.

“Please don’t call me O-Bomb either. Yeah, the economy is weak in the US right now, but to be fair, it’s been pretty bad worldwide. As a country, we just have to be more responsible with our money, and we need to create new jobs. We have to work together to make things right.”

I hadn’t been listening to his answer. I was thinking about when it would be appropriate to ask if he could smell what Barack was cooking and more importantly, I needed to know what he was drinking. He had pressed all the bubbles on the lid of the cup so it was impossible to tell. There needs to be some kind of fail-safe that prevents multiple bubbles from being pressed down at the same time, unless of course, the second bubble is “diet.”

I tried to pretend I had been listening. “What you say is true. Is that orange soda you’re drinking? What were we talking about?”

I was clearly flustered.

For the love of God, what is he drinking?

“We were talking about the global economy.” He sipped his mystery beverage and carefully placed a few fries in his mouth. He didn’t dip them in ketchup. Good choice, McDonald’s fries don’t need ketchup. I respect him for that decision.

I tried to return to the topic at hand. “The global economy, of course. Wacky stuff, right? So, um, B.O., do you think you’ll get re-elected or what? And as a follow-up question, is that Sprite you’re drinking?”

I was nervous. I casually took a bite of my McChicken, but managed to drop glob of mayo on my crotch. I checked to see if B-Rawk had noticed. He was laughing, but then nodded as if to say, it’s okay. All was well…or was it? What was in the cup!?!

“So you asked if I think I’ll be re-elected? That’s up to the American people, isn’t it? Also, please don’t call me B.O. It sounds like you’re calling me Body Odor.”

I just called the president Body Odor. God, I’m an idiot. On another note, Body Odor’s answer to my question was a huge cop out. He’d also dodged my questions about his soft drink. Why are they called soft drinks anyway? As opposed to hard drinks? Is it a matter of alcohol content or just a reference to it’s scientific state of matter? I’m not calling them soft drinks again until I understand the term.

Sensing my frustration, the Prez spoke up, “You don’t seem happy with my answer. Truth be told, the other candidates are so awful I might be voted back in, and hey, check out my new motto: “Not George Bush.”

Mr. P was right, he wasn’t George Bush. That guy was the laughing stock of the entire planet, but at least he would have told me what kind of flipping beverage he was enjoying with his QP with Cheese. Why won’t Big Mama Obama tell me what he was drinking? It was time to confront him.

“Look man, I’ve asked you twice and you haven’t answered.” My face had grown beet red. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. “What goddamn flavor of tasty carbonated beverage are you drinking!?! Tell me, or I swear to God, I will destroy you.”

He looked shocked and I don’t blame him, I overreacted. To give him credit, he stayed composed. Being a president you have to know how to keep your composure. After calling off his security guards, he held his hands up in front of him in a peaceful gesture. “Relax my friend. You ordered my meal for me, remember? You insisted I get the Quarter Pounder combo and said I could not, under any circumstances, use ketchup on my fries. Does that ring a bell?”

He was right.

Is Ronald McDonald getting creepier? I think he is.

B-Rawk was drinking root beer. I had explained how underrated root beer was and that people have the common misconception root beer is for kids. I had known what he was drinking all along and had managed to ruin our entire lunch together. I had failed as a best friend. My head fell into my hands and I began to sob. “Now you probably hate me,” I gasped.

“Not at all. Things like this happen,” he said, patting me on the back. “We’re still friends.”

He didn’t say best friends though and I think I caught him rolling his eyes. I could feel our friendship crumbling away. Maybe I could still salvage this friendship. I tried the nickname I had been saving for last, “President Obama, do you mind if I call you La Bamba?”

With his hand on my shoulder, he smiled and said, “Not a chance,” then motioned for security to step in.

While being dragged away, I looked the President in the eyes and asked, “Can you smell what Barack is cooking?”

I’m not positive, but I think he heard me and I think he smiled.

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