Dear Diary,
Joe is still giving himself a hard time over those White House gatecrashers. I’ve tried to tell him he’s been way overdue for a gaffe of his own lately. Those pics with that silky blonde sure get him back on track, though. Didn’t he think something was fishy when those two kept wanting him to talk more about cotton production in Uzbekistan? What legit Washington insider would ever make that mistake? Look, most of us know Joe can clear a room faster than anybody just by asking, “Hey, did I ever tell you about the time…”
I mean, jeez, she could have picked his pocket and planted a homing device in that one intimate little photo of those two. I was about ready to ask the Secret Service to get the Jaws of Life to separate them, but I guess the Service was already in over their heads just trying to cross check an approved guest list. I don’t know. I’ll tell you one thing: He’s lucky he didn’t get a golf club through the back window of his SUV, that’s for sure.
Speaking of golf clubs, Michelle is still steamed about the little salsa dance Barack got corralled into doing with that Latino pop star the other week at the White House. “They think he bowed too deeply in front of the Japanese Emperor, do they?” she told me the next day, while taking a couple of practice swings with a 7-iron. “Just let him try and swivel his hips with that little enchilada again. I’ll show them a deep bow at the waist all right.” From what she showed me with that 7-iron, Michelle could also be a pretty good golfer.
Realistically, though, I guess we girls just have to accept that men in power are going to be fawned over. Michelle and I think it’s funny that our men believe it’s all about them and not the positions of power they hold. Like Michelle says, “He flashes that 1,000-watt smile of his like he’s Bono or something. Take away that Presidential Seal, and he’s just another big-eared doofus thinking he can put the moves on some little Mexican tamale.”
Yeah, she’s still steamed all right.
I guess I should be too, but I’m not. Frankly, I think Michaele could have performed the dance of the seven veils in front of my Joe, and all he would have wanted to know was whether the silk came from Tashkent. Then before she knew what hit her, she would have been on a camel with him and Marco Polo on their way to meet the Kublai Khan. I’ve never really had to worry about Joe straying or anything. So many women in politics have come up to me over the years and simply whispered to me, “Thank you.”
Still, I might get Michelle a set of clubs for Christmas.
