Tomorrow, the event of the century -- no -- the millenium is going to occur. I'm not referring to the local two-for-one strawberry slushie deal that only comes around every blue moon, although that is still a huge deal. I'm talking about the inauguration of Barack Motherfucking Obama.
Finally, the American dream has been realized for the millions of African-Americans, the descendants of the slave days, because some random dude with the same skin color as them came to America in the 60's and knocked up some white woman, and that baby turned into the president.
This, obviously, must be celebrated, and I've been looking for an excuse to throw a party lately. And why do I need a party? To validate my drinking, of course! There's nothing sadder than slipping into a state of vomit-inducing intoxication while clutching a cheap box of wine and crying in corner alone.
It looks like Mr. Obama is already making my life better. Thank you, Mr. Obama.
You know what? Let's just skip to making this day a National Holiday. And let's go all the way by injecting it full of intricate traditional (and heavily commercialized) activities that don't make any sense, like everyone playing a long C-minor note at the stroke of 11:17 p.m., just for the hell of it. Don't worry about why; let the morons on Wikipedia figure it out, and trace it back to some obscure literature in 14th century Germany.
Meanwhile, I will have to endure the prolonged bitching of my die-hard conservative family, who repeat insistently that the hype surrounding Obama is a pile of squid shit, and then criticize minor details of his speeches. They can't wait for his imperfections to be brought to light, so they can get into a jerk-off fest about much they never trusted him. Even now, in the background of my house, my step-mom is yelling at the television set. Why is she yelling? Because Obama, apparently, is half-white. I don't know, I don't speak to her, as she enjoys NASCAR, which I find to be fucking horrible. It's not that I hate seeing cars drive endlessly, or southern accents, or insipidly intellectually insulting sports-commentating, or wasting large amounts of fuel; it's a combination of all those things coming together to create one gigantic soul-destroying robot made entirely out of shit. That shoots lasers. Fucking lasers.
Not that I'm a screaming-fan-girl of Obama's, but I do give him this:
- He's well-spoken
- He's a visionary
- He smokes (A quality which I deeply admire)
Well, that's about it. Let's not get too carried away.