Saturday, January 7, 2017


a guest editorial by A.C. Doyle

Shine on me sunshine, walk with me world, it’s a skippidy-doo-dah day,
I’m the happiest girl, in the whole U.S.A.
Donna Fargo sang that in March of 1972. Forty-five years later, at about 9:15 AM EST, on Friday, January 20th, there’ll be another young American woman feeling that exact same way. Her name is Malia Ann Obama.

She’ll be in the middle of her “Gap Year”. And nobody will care. Bill O’Reilly won’t take her to task for being a lazy no-account monkey child. Sean Hannity won’t make fun of her muscular arms. Rush Limbaugh won’t call her a slut who should be holding an aspirin between her slutty knees to keep them slutty shut. Ann Coulter won’t call her ugly. And Glenn Beck won’t complain that her donated dress cost the mythical taxpayer $20,000.

And then she’ll matriculate at Harvard, when the leaves start to turn. Her uncle Craig was the coach of Division I Oregon State, and taught her some nifty footwork in the paint. She might play varsity hoops as a freshman. She’s also a talented tennis player, volleyballer, and dancer. With both English and Math SATs north of 700. By way of comparison, Dubya got into Yale with under 1100 combined, and Al Gore got into Harvard by barely breaking 1100. So any whisper of her not deserving her admission is flat-out racism, and nothing but. This young woman could kick Tricia Nixon’s, Amy Carter’s, Chelsea Clinton’s, and Caroline Kennedy’s ass, from court to classroom!

And give Jenna and Barbara Bush some substance abuse counseling. Which segues us nicely to cocaine and abortions.

Has there ever been a teenage girl under such scrutiny? Not since Joan of Arc, perhaps, or Miley Cyrus.  In this age of social media, with privacy-negating services like Instagram and SnapChat, the President's many detractors have had eight years to "catch" Malia. 

Doing a bonghit, sipping a beer, smoking a Newport, kissing a white boy, kissing a black boy, heaven forefend kissing a Latino boy, barfing, having a snooger in her nostril, squatting to pee, putting on deodorant, showing camel-toe through her dance leotard, having sweat stains on her armpits, chewing with her mouth open, falling on a patch of ice, having melted ice cream on her chin that looks like sperm, being six pounds overweight, having zits, saying something catty under her breath, saying “niggah”, dancing to a vulgar rap song, bossing her roommate around, losing at chess – seriously, you name it. The slightest indiscretion or embarrassing moment would have been splashed all over the Internet, with 18 million views and 35,000 virulently racist comments, in a busy eight or ten hours.

And what has the press chosen to pounce on?

Well, you all must remember that terrible scandal when her class at Sidwell Friends Academy had a trip to Mexico. Yes, THAT Mexico. The one to our south. By law, Secret Service agents had to accompany her, and they did. And do you know what happened? Someone had to pay their salary while they were doing their job. And the Unites States government did just that. Shocking, I know.

And then some designers donated dresses to Malia. For state events. They were proud to do so, and she looked lovely. And no taxpayer paid one ten thousandth of a cent. But it was still a scandal, and the Obama family were clearly freeloading on poor Ralph Lauren or Donna Karan.

And? And??? AND?!?!?!?!?!?!? 

Crickets. The teenage girl went to Mexico once, and she wore some pretty dresses now and again. That’s the very worst that the rabid FOX Media Machine and its even loonier satellites--like Breitbart, Newsmax, WND and The Blaze--were able to come up with. Over eight years.

So, quick show of hands, who wants their kids to be more like Malia Obama? As opposed to…ohhh… let's say, Eric Trump? Although I must say, spending the majority of the funds raised by your "cancer charity" to boost your Dad’s failing businesses is truly an impressive display of generosity. Filial piety writ large.

But as of Friday night, January 20th, 2017, Malia Ann Obama can go get herself a 'scrip for the Pill, make out with a handsome Mexican boy, spark up a fat doober and take a few swigs of Jack Daniels, dance crotch to crotch, offer up opinions as to why white people suck, say "fuck" and "shit" and tell a few racy jokes, elbow the young woman guarding her on the basketball court, blast Kanye or Jay-Z on her stereo, wear something cut low, or too tight, or just really comfortable and frumpy, and just be a fun smart strong beautiful young woman.

And if L’Oreal or CoverGirl wants to give her a million-dollar contract, it will be the best million they ever spent.

I’m happy for her. 

Malia Obama, when seen in its proper context, this inauguration will be tailor-made, just for you. Enjoy it, and all the new freedom you'll have.

A.C. Doyle is a raconteur, bistro cook, travel writer, epidemiologist, and erstwhile healthcare technology guru. Born into a sprawling Irish family in New England's toughest city, the boxing Mecca of Brockton. MA, where the police deal the best cocaine and the high school installed the county's first metal detectors, he snuck off to the country's toniest educational institutions, where he developed a deep abiding fear of trust funds and Episcopalians. He has traveled to over eighty countries, been jailed for smuggling at the Texas border, expelled from the country of Belgium, and currently works in a bistro 8500 feet up in La Sierra Gorda. The common thread running through his many failed romances is his annoying behavior. He currently serves as catnip for fat, mustachioed, middle-aged women on Mexican He also gets along well with children, dogs, drunkards, and fools.

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