Obama Adventures: The United States Transforms Into a Jet

Obama Adventures Zach Diamond

This is probably my most mature story yet.

“Mr. Obama!” shouted Hilary, kicking in the door to the Oval Office. “Don’t touch that fucking shit-cunt of a button!”

“Why not, Clinton?” Obama said, tenderly rubbing the button as if it were his circular, scarlet lover. He winked in her direction.

“You don’t understand what it could do to this nation.” Hilary took two steps toward the Resolute desk, cautious not to get close enough to startle Obama. “Just do not push it.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Mrs. Bossypants. I’m the President. I can do whatever I want. You’re just a secretary. Of state.”

“You’re right, sir. You’re right,” Hilary said, slowly taking another step forward. She knew how to win him over. “You are better than me, you beat me in 2008. Just, for the love of all the hairy, veiny dicks in this world, do not push that button. I beg of you.”

“Too late, I—” the window behind Obama shattered, glass erupting into the room and spilling out onto the floor, desks, and tables. Obama crouched down and tucked his head into his arms for protection as Hilary dove behind the desk for cover.

“Obama!” shouted a deep, southern voice from the drawn curtains behind Obama. It sounded as if it was moving toward them. “Oooobbbaaammmaaaa!”

George W. Bush Jr. exploded through the broken window, rolling across the ground and landing on his feet beside Obama. A modified Blackhawk helicopter hovered just outside, six men wearing gimp suits attached where the missiles and miniguns should have been. It looked like two Thoroughbred bred race horses may have been piloting and co-piloting the chopper.

“Bush?” Obama said, rising to his feet and placing his hand back over the button.

“Don’t push that button,” Bush said, breathing heavily and brushing shattered glass off his navy blue suit. A golden American flag was pinned to his lapel, the declaration of independence folded so its name could be read from beneath his left arm.

“What the hell did you fly in on?” Obama said, staring at the sex slave helicopter.

“That’s my gimpacopter. I can get you one if you want. It shoots gimps at terrorists and turns them gay. You just need to not push that button and it’s all yours.” He turned toward the chopper as if admiring it, the two Thoroughbreds visibly shifting uncomfortably from the pilot’s seats.

“No, and you can’t tell me what to do. You’re not the President anymore,” Obama said. He took out his wallet and removed his driver’s license. “Do you see this?” he said, holding it up to Bush’s face. Hilary took the opportunity to walk up to the desk.

“Yes,” Bush said.

“What does it say?”

“Barrack Hussein Obama, President of the United States of America, illegal immigrant, and organ donor.”

“Exactly,” Obama said. “I’m the President now. I do what I want, not what you want.” Obama lowered his hand to the button so that it touched his palm.

“Wait!” shouted Hilary, pounding her fist on the Resolute desk. “Just wait a cock-knocking second.” She glanced at Bush.

“Don’t do it,” Bush said, staring back at Hilary.

“We need to,” she said, shaking her head slowly. She took a deep breath. “That button is the ignition for the Megatron Protocol. It was a failed precursor project to our Optimus Prime Initiative, which also failed.”

“Megatron? Like the Transformer?” Obama said.

“Robots in disguise,” Hilary said, shaking her head solemnly.

“Yes,” Bush nodded. “It was intended to allow us to be more than meets the eye. We had been working on the programs during both Iraq Wars, which were fronts to support the initiatives. Why do you think I was elected and re-elected after my father and Clinton? We had been collaborating with Saddam to complete the program in secrecy. The troop engagements were purely for show. In fact, we never even lost track of Saddam. He was in the U.S. the whole time, hiding out in Hilary and Bill’s basement/sex dungeon. The three of us played Twister on Wednesdays.”

“So Saddam is still alive?”

“No, he died in 2006. Do you even read the paper?” Bush paused. “Anyway, the whole war was a front for the Megatron Protocol and the Optimus Prime Initiative. We had engineers deep under Iraqi and American soil the entire time building and completing the framework.”

“What exactly is it?” Obama said, staring at the button. It was just a simple, scarlet button that had been hidden beneath the top of the Resolute desk. He’d stumbled upon it while trying to find somewhere to carve his name into the wooden desk with his pocket knife. Unfortunately, Jimmy Carter had already engraved racial slurs across most of its visible area.

“It transforms the United States into a jet that then flies into space—like Megatron. We were going to create a whole line of them before the program was killed, the next one being the transformation of Iraq into an 18 wheeler under the Optimus Prime protocol.” Bush paused, a smile spreading across his face. “We had also begun the planning phase for the Bumblebee Decree, in which we were going to transform France into a stupid, yellow compact car . We told them they would become a radical shark; it was going to be hilarious. The only one we ever completed was the Megatron Protocol.”

“Wait, what?” Obama said.

“You heard me. We turned the United States into a modern Megatron, like the Transformer and leader of the Decepticons. It seemed practical at the time.”

“Fuck my cock did it seem practical,” Hilary nodded. She pounded her fist against the desk. “Practical as a tower of boners at a gay bar.”

“It turned out that it wasn’t very practical,” Bush said. “Space apparently has no oxygen. We forgot about that. Dumped trillions into the program, replaced the entire base of the country with jet thrusters and cool metal wings and stuff. But we forgot that we would need oxygen to breathe. We hoped that trees might solve that problem and planted thousands, but scientists discovered that trees die sometimes. We couldn’t take that risk. We burned all the trees and ended the program shortly thereafter.”

“But it works otherwise?” Obama said.

“Yes,” Bush said. “We tested it once, but only for a split second to confirm it functioned. The entire planet shook violently, caused the 2007 Tsunami in Indonesia. We pretended it had been an earthquake afterward and had the media under-report where it had been felt. If it wasn’t for the oxygen issue, the U.S.A. would be the first country literally flying through space right now.”

“But you’re telling me that this country could turn into a plane and fly into space at this very second, except that everyone would die due to a lack of oxygen?”

“Fucking right we are,” Hilary said. “It was a great idea, the best idea, but it failed to deliver in the way we intended it to. It fucking sucks sweaty sack.”

“Well,” Obama said, staring at the button, “I guess that makes my job easier.”

“What do you mean?” Hilary said, staring at Obama. He lifted his arms and began unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt, revealing a white circle with a black figure in the middle of it, the t-shirt itself otherwise entirely red. She immediately recognized the symbol.

“This,” Obama said, slamming his hand down on the button. The Earth instantly responded with a violent quake, sending Hilary and Bush stumbling backwards. A smile spread across Obama’s his face as he turned to Hilary, his right arm raised toward the ceiling in a Nazi salute.

“Hitler sends his regards.”


Writing Prompt: The Iraq War was fake. It was the name for a secret project that used the money to turn the entire USA into a giant spaceship


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