THE BABOON BUFFOON AWARD OF THE YEAR.
AND IT GOES TO . . .
Breaking new, breaking news, breaking news.
It didn’t come as a surprise, the award that is, and when I
stuck my microphone in front of his face he couldn’t resist. He wanted to do a bit of venting and he knew
I would let him.
“I know that my numbers are down a bit, not according to my
inside sources, but according to those misfits out there who claim to represent
the press. Of course, my new bimbo press
secretary didn’t pan out too well, but I’m kind of running low on people who’re
willing to explain me in glowing terms.
What about Putin, you say? A bit
of a personal sticky matter. He can be a
real pain in the you know what, but I participated in a few embarrassing
situations—I’ll never admit to it, of course—but he’s got a bit of dirt on me
and I have to play nice. My kind of guy,
really. We’re quite a bit alike. Basically, you f@#^K with me and I’ll f@3^k
with you. I get things done. I’ve got people in place who explain to
certain other people what I expect to hear, like that perfect memory score. Aced it.
That’s what they told me, anyway.
How do I explain myself, my success.
There is always somebody willing to suck up to me. And I like awards. Should have gotten a Nobel. Other people get them, so why not me? You’re a great guy, but the other
journalists. Stupid. The news should be about me and it irritates
the hell out of me when I’m ignored.
Whether it is baseball, soccer or nuking Iran, I want to be in on
it. I have an opinion. I am Super Intelligence. AI is modelled after my brain. Reporters!
Bunch of green-eyed, envious, pathetic little losers. It takes a special guy to run America, hell,
the world. And I’m it. Just keep the awards coming. Thanks for taking the time, great buddy. I know you’ll set my record straight.”
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