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First, Newt Gingrich’s ex-wife claimed he wanted an open marriage.  Then some tabloid - “Vanity Knot Fare,” or “Snoozeweak” maybe? - sandwiched an article about Rick Santorum’s wife Karen between the three headed baby photos and Jonathan Alter’s piece claiming he bore Elvis’ balding love child.  The article quotes a 92 year old fellow who claims the then 22 year old Karen, a real looker, was reduced to dating the 62 year old him. 


I don’t know anything about the truth of those claims, but I realize my timing couldn’t be worse.  Still, I’ve got to get this off my chest.  It’s my own winter - summer, white - black, ugly - gorgeous romance.  Ready?  Me and Michelle Obama.  Yep. 

It began long ago in Hawaii when I was walking along the beach and stumbled across a mugging.  Since there were six thugs and only one victim, I felt obligated to intervene.


“Hey pal,” I said to the ringleader, “don’t you know violence never solved anything?”


 “Then what’s with the uniform, jump boots and Green Beret you’re wearing?” he replied.  “Violence doesn’t solve anything, huh?”


I was still in the Army and as some of you may recall, I was a Green Beret.  Before the ravages of time and my wife’s cooking, I actually looked like one.  Sort of. 


“Circle slash bullying,” I hissed as I lunged at them. I can’t stand a smart aleck.


As you might expect, they acted like the cowards they were. Rather than standing their ground, they all hopped on their big wheels and peddled off.  I turned my attention to the victim.


“Kid, obesity’s a disease,” I said, snatching the twinkey out of his mouth and replacing it with a carrot stick.


“Oh my gosh, an American soldier fighting both bullying and obesity!” someone said in a melodious voice. “For the first time in my adult life, I’m proud of my country.”


I turned and beheld the vision of loveliness we now know as Michelle Obama.


Before I go any further, let me say I know Michelle claims the election was the first time she was proud.  I really agonized over disclosing this.  I called the White House switch board to discuss it with Michelle and not only would they not let me talk to her, they sent a whole squadron of bullies to my house. These ones weren’t riding big wheels.  They had badges that said “Secret Service” and when I said, “pair-o-dee, you cretins,” they said, “protective cuss-toe-dee, you big mouth.” 


After my wife helped them with the flex cuffs, they put a hood over my head and flew me off to Guantanamo Bay where I was forced to order from a seven page menu specifically designed for my dietary needs, watch free pay per view movies and play “Risk” with Khalid Sheik Mohamed.  He cheats, by the way, and the guards wouldn’t do diddly about it, no matter how much I complained to Human Rights Watch.


Eventually David Axelrod showed up and said, “Thanks for that column on Gingrich.  We’re springing you, but no more calls, okay?”


Anyway, flash back to Hawaii.  Michelle was an avid paint ball player back then.  She was carrying a “Team Native Hawaiian” gym bag and was still wearing her duds, a black dress with telltale red paint splotches all over it. 


“Tough game, huh?” I said


“The Marines fielded a team,” she sighed.  “It was January 17, 1893 all over again.”


And that’s how it started, all those years ago.  During that magical summer everyone seemed to be in Hawaii.  The future Mr. and Mrs. Gore, some chick no one liked named Tina, Erich Segal and me and Michelle.  We all hung out together and I can straighten you out on a few things.

First, Tina was jealous of Michelle. Every time Michelle went to the bathroom, Tina was like, “How tragic.  She’d wear that old paint-splotched dress to an inaugural if she could.”


Also, Al Gore did not invent the internet and Erich based “Love Story” upon someone, but it wasn’t Al and Tipper, hint, hint.  Al kept waddling down to the beach with a ruler and sticking it in the water.  Michelle and I warned Tipper, flashing her “L”s with our thumb and finger. “Louzzzerr!”  But there was no talking to Tipper about Al back then.


The rest is history.  One day some dashing guy named Barry showed up and Michelle said, “I’m outta here, Pal.  Besides, you’d really like him, he’s like you, a humorist” or “humanist,” maybe “socialist,” I can’t remember exactly.


My point is, don’t be so quick to dismiss these stories about Newt or Karen.  After all, it’s not like you can just make stuff up about public figures, you know?



AMAZON: max lewis


This is a column of opinion and satire. The author knows of no undisclosed facts. © Joseph M.  Lewis


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This is a column of opinion and satire.