It's almost sad, really. The way you were begging her, Chris; pleading for Barbara Boxer to assure you that, yes, those mean people protesting the President's plans were simply a part of a scam. A put-on run by the Pharmaceutical and Insurance industries. There couldn't be any real, normal people who disagree with Obama. He's—why, he's perfect. He's The One.
It's okay, Chris. We've all been in love. Blind to those faults pointed out by others. Ready to fight to the death anyone who dares besmirch the name or reputation of our Beloved.
How it must astound you, Chris, that there could possibly be people who cannot see Barack for the warm, wonderful leader he so obviously is. That they could be anything but stunned by the beauty and confidence he radiates.
But you... you can see Him as He is, can't you, Chris? As he stands there, the very essence of power and authority. And then his voice. Oh, if you could still get it up, how that Voice would send you over the edge!
Ah, but how right this secret love feels. The sidelong glances. That knowing, warm smile. You pay your own tributes, do you not? As you sit in your dressing room, you know you should be preparing for your show, but, after all, the President's Weekly Prime Time address is about to begin. And the lights go down. You light the special candles. Box of tissue on your right -- just in case. And when the President speaks, you close your eyes and imagine. The world fades away, and he's talking to you. Just to you. That familiar tingle runs up your leg, and in your minds eye, you are with Him alone, at kneeling at His feet. He talks that wonderful, beautiful talk, and you, in tribute ... — but for now the fantasy will have to do.
At least you have your dreams, until that day finally comes. The day when you finally throw caution to the wind and work up the courage to put on that blue dress, that dark beret, and knock, ever so gently, on His door.
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