Prompt: There is a new Presidential speechwriter, courtesy of The Internet

“‘Dear debt-rotted people of America:’ ? Is this some sort of joke?”


“We should start off punchy.”


“‘Hold on to your butts, it’s about to get real.’ That’s what you call punchy?”


“What do you call it, if not punchy?”


White House Chief of Staff Denis McDonough rubbed at a stabbing pain in his forehead. This is what he had to deal with, this?


The girl before him was careless in dress and manner. Her clothes would be tasteful were it not for the artful slashes in controversial locations. Her hair would be professional were it not for the splotch of pink engulfing the entire right side of her head. Her shoes… Holy mother of god, she had none.


How did this woman make it past security, let alone be appointed the President’s primary speech writer?


“Look, Mr. Secretary,” she spoke as if chewing around nonexistent bubblegum, “I know you’re worried about, like, PC and all that.”


“Yes. Hence why we can’t refer to Wall Street investors as ‘scum-sucking rapers of th–‘”


“But, democrats just won a landslide in the midterm elections! It’s time to stick it to the people where they’ll feel it for generations, show them that the democrats can really play hardball when there’s something at stake.”


McDonough’s migraine was threatening to rip out of his skull. “And what is it that you believe is at stake, Ms. Achter?”


“Well, for one thing, we gotta get these people to start voting. I mean come on, a 35 percent turnout at midterms?”


“I suppose you address that with the line, ‘It’s time to stop jacking off and actually do something useful with your citizenship’?”




“And the line, ‘start shoving those tax dollars to noble causes, rather than stuffing them into the asses of corporate interests like you’re pegging the polished sphincter of JP Morgan Chase himself,’ what exactly were you hoping to accomplish there?”


“It’s time for the American people to focus on themselves! Pull themselves out from their debt slavery to big corporations! Start making money for themselves, carve wood, that kind of thing.”


“Make farms?”


“‘Work that hoe harder than a coked-out pedophile in a Chuck E Cheese’ is the line you’re looking for.”


“Of course, how could I forget.”


McDonough thought about the past. Far into the past. He thought about the history of the country that employed him. Over 200 years of relative sanity. Some wars, some social uprising, a couple market crashes, monopolies, oligopolies, the usual. People who said “black people” on TV losing their political appointments, presidents rolling up their shirtsleeves and taking pictures next to hurricane-wrecked neighborhoods. Sanity.


What god-forsaken fluke in social engineering had spawned this situation?


“Ms. Achter, could you remind me again how you came into this position?”


She smiled. “Well! Now that the collective anonymous voice of the internet is the most powerful lobbyist in Washington, Homie Brobama decided it was time to get on the level of young people in the country. After all, you guys only got, what, another decade before you start kicking the bucket?”


“Right.” He sighed. “Well, despite gems of lines like ‘time to start warring on our own dumbfuckery rather than the drugs and brown people’ or ‘kill all CEOs,’ I can’t, in good faith, deliver this speech to the President.”


“Oh?” Ms. Achter delivered a wickedly crooked smile. “Why’s that?”


“To put it in your terms, Ms. Achter, it’s fucking retarded.”


“What’s fucking retarded, Denis?” Came a dignified voice.


McDonough stiffed and turned to the door. “Mr. President. I was just going over some of our options for the State of the Union speech. I think…” he trailed off as the President and Ms. Achter engaged in a complex and mind-boggling system of handshakes that ended with a mid-air butt-bump.


Obama straightened his tie. “Good to see you settling in, homegirl. What do you think of her work, Denis? Class act, am I right?”


Denis shifted. He felt very hot. “Ah, well sir, I was thinking we could go with something more, baseline, more tested.”


“Hmm.” The President glanced over the draft Achner handed him. “Maybe. We’ll see.” He passed the paper back, winked at Achner, and said, “keep up the good work you two. You’ll know my decision come the day of the speech.”


A week later, Denis sat in his well-worn seat in the press room as The President cleared his throat and prepared to deliver a speech listened to by billions.




McDonough leaned forward in his seat.




Mother of god.



(Inspired by: 4chan’s letter to the NSA)


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