ARF!

Bo here, the conservative dog in the White House. I’m in the Oval Office with Barry and the boys while they decide on a strategy for the State of the Union speech. They can’t make up their minds. Big surprise, huh?

It’s been quite a week here since the Massachusetts senate race, all of them whining and moaning like a litter of pitbulls finding out they’ve just been sold to Michael Vick. Barry, of course, has been hardest hit. A retiree in Pompano Beach, Florida, gets bit by a sand flea, and Barry is hardest hit.

Still, the Scott Brown victory was a genuine blow to the faithful. Barry thrives on self-delusion, so the team here firehoses him with flattery non-stop. The One. The Lightbringer. Captain Smooth. Except for Rahm, the only guy who can tell Barry the truth. The only one who actually enjoys telling Barry the truth. Teleprompter Jesus. President Fist Bump. Harry Reid’s Immaculate Negro. Barry doesn’t appreciate it, but Rahm doesn’t care. Anyway, Scott Brown’s election really shook the place up. I was there. I smelt the fear…

“Now what?” Barry kept saying as he flipped through the channels looking for good news. “Now what?”

On CNBC, Norah O’Donnell woodenly read the latest vote tallies, mascara running down her cheeks like Chuckie the killer klown. Keith Olbermann was in the background, loudly vomiting into a waste basket. (more…)

Bow-wow. You can call me Bo. I’m President Shoutout’s family mutt, a Portuguese water dog with curly black hair. My real name isn’t Bo, but I’m not telling you my real one. Bo is fine. It’ll do anyway. Took the White House brain trust four months to come up with it — you wouldn’t believe the names they actually considered. Let’s just say that “Alinsky” was a contender until Axelrod said “why don’t you just name it ‘Arafat’ and kiss off flyover country for 2012?” Yeah, he called me “it.” Axelrod’s a real sweetheart. Barry’s chief political advisor, which means he spent the whole presidential campaign sending candygrams to the press corps so they wouldn’t do their job. He could have accomplished the same thing with a Hershey bar stolen from an orphan’s Halloween bag. I got his number. Axelrod smells like cabbage and tries to kick me when Barry’s not looking.

Right now, I’m sitting in the Oval Office with Barry, Axelrod and Chief of Staff and resident kneecapper, Rahm Emanuel, while the three chumps cool their heels in the waiting room. Barry’s staring out the window, going JFK on us, trying to figure out which precise upward angle of the chin registers that weary-but-resolute toughness that the press corps laps up. If he sticks that jaw up any higher he’s going to drown in a drizzle if you ask me, but the pose does seem to bring a flush to the freshly sculpted cheeks of Andrea Mitchell. (more…)