Benny Jay: Barack Obama Is Not My Fault!

It’s early in the morning when the call comes in.

“Those goddamn Democrats!”

“Hi, mom….”

And she’s off, ripping the Democrats for being cowards, castigating the Wall Street crowd — bankers, brokers, hedge fund operators — for robbing us blind, blasting the insurance company for jacking up health costs, and reminding me once again that Barack Obama’s no FDR.

Sigh. I reach for my coffee….

“Did you read that article in the New York Times about FDR?”

“I was the one who told you about it — remember?”

“They all stink….”

“I told you, mom, Obama’s no radical…..”

“Maybe that one guy — I forgot his name…..”

Now, I have to figure out who she’s talking about.

“Which one?”

“Koo?”

“Kucinich?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I think he’s very ugly….”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Nothing. But America won’t vote for a guy who looks ugly like that….”

Hmm, I think she may be on to something. I try to think if America’s ever elected an ugly president.

“Johnson wasn’t so good looking,” I say. “And neither was Nixon….”

She ignores me, moving on to Afghanistan. “He’s giving them billions to put in their Swiss bank accounts….”

The thing is that my oldest daughter worked for Obama in the presidential campaign and ever since then all the lefties I know — and I know a whole lot of lefties — have been blaming me cause Obama’s a wishy-washy, middle-of-the-road wimp.

To which I say: 1.) If you’re going to blame someone, blame my daughter, not me; 2.) I told you he was a wimp;  3.) If you didn’t want a wimp, you should have voted for Kucinch; and 4.) At least he’s better than Palin.

I don’t think we can have this conversation too many times. I must have it at least two or three times a week.

Anyway, my mom hangs up and I realize I’ve got to walk the dog. So I head out the door. Got my cell phone in hand, all set to call Norm to talk about the Bulls, when from across the street: “Hey, Benny!”

I look up. Oh, no — it’s Frank!

Don’t get me wrong, I love Frank. I love his passion, his humor, his intelligence and his foul mouth. But he’s another lefty — even leftier than my mom — and I know what’s coming.

“That mother fu….”

Oh, brother — he can’t wait to rip into me about Obama. He’s not even across the street and he’s already howling.

Turns out Frank read a story about Obama supporting an initiative to give seeds to poor African countries, where people are starving. Only “they have no water. What the fuck good are seeds if you have no water?”

It’s a question I can’t answer. It’s a question which has no answer. The best spin artists in Obama’s White House could not concoct an adequate answer. It’s like we do all this bullshit — hold Olympics, root for the Bulls, send our kids to school — and people are dying of starvation.

“The world,” I tell Frank, “is ruled by madness.”

Not good enough. He starts in on health care — what’s Obama doing about health care. Nothing. The wimp! The coward! And so on and so forth….

It’s a repeat of the conversation I had with my mother.

“It’s not my fault,” I say.

“Your daughter worked for Obama,” says Frank’s wife.

Oh, brother….

I change the subject and we move to a far more fascinating discussion about Frank’s son’s born-again-girlfriend. Did I tell you that Frank’s a militant agnostic? Well, he is. And the notion that his son would date a born-again girl is something for Dr. Freud.

Actually, the girl’s not a born-again. Her parents are. Or at least the mother is. The father’s just an old-fashioned Republican. Which is pretty bad in and of itself — I’m trying to imagine Frank and the Republican at the wedding. Anyway, it’s a great story — he’s having a blast telling it and I’m having a blast listening to it. But he realizes he’s late for wherever he’s got to go and so he’s off.

I’m halfway up the street, dialing up Norm to talk about the Bulls, when I hear Frank call my name. One more thing about Obama.

Too late. I’m around the corner and officially out of range.

Ah, peace at last….