The Showtunes Must Go On

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Slightly bleary, President Barack Obama pads to the breakfast table in his bathrobe, a series of newspapers -with stories already highlighted for his attention- crooked under his arm. The rest of the family out of town, the large empty table only seems to underline the eerie quiet.

Obama presses a discrete button built into his chair, an aide allows himself in.

“Good morning sir,” says the aide.

“I guess that depends on what you have to say,” Obama smiles, eyes still skimming his newspapers. “What’s on my agenda today?”

The aide flips through his clipboard. “Well there’s the war, the economy, taxes, gays in the military, the other war-“

Obama groans. “Jesus. You people might as well have those pre-printed on your stationary.”

“There has been some movement in the Middle East Peace Process.”

“Yeah," Obama guffaws. "Whatever.”

“Kim Jong Il is here requesting an audience.”

“I don’t understand a word that guy says. He’s, like, French or something.” Obama yawns deeply. “What would you do?”

“As President?”

“Yes.”

“With my wife and kids out of town?  I would probably just surf porn I suppose.”

“Can’t,” says Obama. “My wife found the line item in the budget I pay for it out of.”

"Ouch,” the aide winces.

“Let’s back up. What about that ‘gays in the military’ thing?

“People of,” the aide coughs, “’alternate lifestyles’ are feeling persecuted out of serving in the armed forces.”

“Wait.  These people want to enlist? They’re aware of the dress code, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well what’s the problem? Don’t we have enemies that need a good smacking around?"

“Not really.”

“How about one that should be patronized condescendingly during an ambush makeover?

“Kim Jong Il maybe?”

“Word," laughs Obama.  Fist-bumping ensues. "He wouldn’t understand a damn thing they said. It would be hilarious.  But in all seriousness, we can’t, under any circumstances, allow homosexuals to get killed in war.”

“Why is that, sir?”

“Too valuable.  You know what happens to an America without gays?”

“No.”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Really?”

“I’m serious. We had a whole Top Secret study done.  We would have full saturation in six months if we're lucky.  And anyone alive a year later better damn well like Coors Light, playing pool, and NASCAR.”

The aide shuddered visibly.

“No, homosexuals can’t be allowed to get in the military, period.  They're a national resource.” Obama scratched his chin, pondering aloud. “And we can’t ask them about their sexuality directly anymore-"

“Wait. Can I ask you some questions about that ‘Pittsburgh’ thing-?"

Obama snaps his fingers. “I got it,” he says with authority. “During boot camp, there’s a mandatory twenty-four hour David Hasselhoff marathon.  And all the recruits get nothing but water and Cheetos."

“I’m not following you,” the aide squirmed.

“Then discharge everyone with glowing orange genitals.”

“Ah. Medical reasons.”

“And this 'condition'" Obama makes quote marks in the air, "-no, diagnosis- makes it impossible to serve in the military as the occasional strobe effect could inavertently give away their location to the enemy."

"So to keep gays out of the military, you want to make up a disease -'Penile Bioluminescent-Affected Mammallian Disorder'-"

"Uh-huh.  'BLAMD.' Perfect."

"That has no other symptoms or cure?"

"Excellent."

"-To save America from becoming Pittsburg."

"It's genius," Obama smiled. “Now get me Rick Astley on the phone! Stat.”