“The thing most people don’t know about me,” Obama said, “is that I slept my way to the top.” He glanced over at Hillary and winked.
“I’m not so sure now is the best time,” Hillary said, pressing her palm to her forehead.
“Like hell it isn’t,” Obama said, taking a sip from the brown-bagged bottle in front of him. “Now is the best god damn time for this discussion.” He turned back toward the rows of seats in front of him. “I don’t understand how people don’t realize it. The Presidency is basically a slutty popularity contest. You should have seen the things Bush did for power. I will now open the floor to questions.”
The room remained silent, save for the occasional click of a camera’s shutter. A small, thin hand slowly rose into the air.
“Yes, you,” Obama said with a hiccup. “Speak.”
A small boy, no older than ten, stood up. He was wearing a poorly-fitted black suit, its over-sized jacket draped over his boney shoulders like a tablecloth.
“Hello, Mr. President,” said the boy. “My name is Timmy, I am in third grade. What is your favorite sport?”
“Are hookers a sport?” Obama said, tipping back the brown-bagged bottle into his mouth. “If so, hookers. If not, then still hookers. Next question.”
“Mr. President,” Hillary muttered, taking a step closer to him. She was now just about ten feet away.
Another thin, young hand slowly rose up.
“You, with the hand,” Obama said.
“Hello,” said a young girl as she rose to her feet. She wore a loose, red-and-white blouse, her hair tied tightly back in a ponytail. “My name is Sarah, I’m a fourth grader. I play the flute in the school band. Do you like to play any instruments?”
“That question sucks,” Obama said, slamming the brown bag against the pulpit with a loud clink. “Next question.”
“Barack,” Hillary whispered through clenched teeth. “You’re in a god damn elementary school. For once, can you please behave yourself?”
“I am behaving myself,” Obama said, ending the sentence with an inexplicably vulgar hiccup. “Next damn question.”
A third thin, tiny hand rose into the air.
“Didn’t I already call on you? Or was that a different hand? You people all look the same,” Obama said, pausing. “And that isn’t racist,” he added. “You’ve all got hands.”
“No, sir,” said a small boy, now standing. He, too, wore an over-sized suit, but his a beige color. “I haven’t asked anything yet.”
“You sure haven’t,” Obama said. “Next question.”
“But I didn’t say my question,” the child pleaded.
“Too late,” Obama said.
“Answer his question,” Hillary snarled.
“Fine, what’s your stupid question,” Obama said, taking another sip from the bagged-bottle.
“My name is Mark, I am in fifth grade. I wanted to know what you meant by ‘sleeping your way to the top.’”
“Finally,” Obama said, placing the bag down on the pulpit. “A good damn question. How familiar are you with sex?”
“Mr. President,” Hillary shouted. “For the love of god!”
“Get off it, Hillary,” Obama said. “These kids are—how old are you, Mack?”
“Ten,” Mark said. “And my name is Mark.”
“These kids are ten years old already, Hilary. Marco over here wants to know what I meant. I can’t just ignore his question.”
Hillary returned her palm to her face.
“Anyway, Martin, for the sake of this answer, I am going to assume you not too familiar with what sex is. Let’s just go ahead and say it’s when a man sticks his willy in a woman’s wolly. Please note the ‘i’ in ‘willy’ and the ‘o’ and ‘wolly.’ There is imagery associated with that. So, to answer your question, I used my willy strategically to climb the political ladder. In fact, every single president since John Adams did this. You should hear what Bush did.”
“What did Bush do?” said a tiny voice from the audience.
“Another good question,” Obama continued. “You fuckers are on a roll.” He picked up the brown bag and tilted it back, lifting it until it was almost vertical. “Do any of you know what a Mississippi Flashbulb is?”
“No,” said a different, high-pitched voice.
“Really?” Obama said. “How about the Alaskan Turnstile?”
“Nope,” said another voice.
“Michigan Steam Engine with Toast and Bacon?”
“Yes,” squeaked several voices.
“Good,” Obama said. “He basically did that for six days straight with anyone who so much as looked his way. And this was straight from the floor of the senate. I had to wear rain boots every time I walked by for a week. Next question.”
“I think we’re done here,” Hilary said, walking over to the microphone and pushing it away from Obama’s mouth. “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered. “You promised you’d behave, this is your last public appearance as President.”
“I’m telling these kids the truth,” Obama said, trying to pull the microphone back toward his face.
“You’re drunk, you need to stop,” Hillary said. “Even if you can’t get impeached, you can still get sued.”
“No, you’re drunk,” Obama said with a hiccup. He grabbed the microphone out of Hilary’s grip. “Kids, I’m not leaving. I want to explain to you the importance of getting into drugs at an early age. Also, don’t trust the government. I’m pretty sure it’s being run by lizard people.”
“Barack!” Hilary shouted, pulling the microphone away again, her wrist knocking into the brown bag. It toppled over, landing on its side with a loud clink. “I know you aren’t up for re-election, but you can’t just go around revealing all these government secrets to preteens. You’re also making me look bad, remember who has to replace you. I didn’t sleep around for nothing.”
“God fucking dammit,” Obama said, pausing and pulling the microphone back toward his mouth. “God fucking dammit,” he repeated, this time directly into the microphone. He glanced down at the toppled bag, liquid now pooling beneath it, then down at the crowd. Rows of children, each wearing their finest outfits, stared back at him, their eyes wide and mouths agape. “She spilled my liquor,” he said. “I’m out this bitch.”
Obama grabbed the microphone out of its stand, took a step back, and dropped it on the floor. He then folded the fingers on his right hand into a “peace” sign before turning and walking off stage.
The crowd of children erupted into a tremendous applause.