Thanks, Jedidah.
Something tells me that Obama’s “gay tape” is going to emerge soon.
This and Van Jones’ statement that blacks would vote Obama even if he way gay seems fishy.
Yes, terms like “bourgeois liberalism”, “dichotomy”, and “reactionary” just scream “love letter”, assuming the girl is a Bader-Meinhoff gang member.
So just how did Maraniss come by these materials? When? (Evidently after he published his prior book on O.). What condition or form were they in? Who exactly is Alex McNear? Does Maraniss have other material that he is not disclosing? What?
Thanks, Jedidah.
Pish posh. Michelle is his beard, he never had a girlfriend.
Thread re: Politico piece on 0 admitting that the Genevieve girlfriend was a “composite.”
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/2879039/posts?page=1
Composite girlfriends and dogs for supper.
The jokes just write themselves.
Funny these so-called girlfriends have not appeared before. I don’t believe any of this.
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken In, sprinkled with ashes Pop switches channels, takes another Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks What to do with me, a green young man Who fails to consider the Flim and flam of the world, since Things have been easy for me; I stare hard at his face, a stare That deflects off his brow; I’m sure he’s unaware of his Dark, watery eyes, that Glance in different directions, And his slow, unwelcome twitches, Fail to pass. I listen, nod, Listen, open, till I cling to his pale, Beige T-shirt, yelling, Yelling in his ears, that hang With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling His joke, so I ask why He’s so unhappy, to which he replies... But I don’t care anymore, cause He took too damn long, and from Under my seat, I pull out the Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing, Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face To mine, as he grows small, A spot in my brain, something That may be squeezed out, like a Watermelon seed between Two fingers. Pop takes another shot, neat, Points out the same amber Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and Makes me smell his smell, coming From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem He wrote before his mother died, Stands, shouts, and asks For a hug, as I shrink, my Arms barely reaching around His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause I see my face, framed within Pop’s black-framed glasses And know he’s laughing too.