PLEASE READ THIS HILARIOUS SPOOF BY ANDREW MALCOLM: OBAMA IS A COMPOSITE TOO
http://news.investors.com/articleprint/610303/201205040824/obama-life-untruths-david-maraniss-book.aspx
He was tall and darkly handsome, in a chiseled sort of way. Clearly intelligent. Quiet and attentive, yet distant in a way that intrigued her as they both drew closer together during those long evenings sipping cheap wine and practicing sophistication on each other.
Both were new to adulthood, trying out the public personalities each wanted the world to see, not the inner tremors that corroded their intestines during long nights when dark personal fears crept into the corners of their lonely apartments.
Like most others from somewhere else who found themselves living in New York City, they told each other how wonderfully exciting and diverse the filthy place was. One minute you could hear distant gunshots, sirens or witness a mugging in the musty subway. And the next you were in a lovely park watching someone declare their contempt for capitalism’s greed by defecating on a car, which is actually much harder than it looks on TV.
The young man and woman were drawn to each other by mutual inner emotional struggles and estrangement from America’s abundant appetite about affluence. He seemed so worldly to her, talking of the 57 states he’d visited and foreign languages he spoke fluently, like Canadian and Austrian. And he was a great conversationalist, always interested in what she thought of anything he’d just said.
He had lived in exotic foreign places, he claimed, consumed strange foods and painfully recounted his longing for an absent father that caused him to wildly over-spend other people’s money, desperately seeking to fill some hidden void by repairing bridges and hiring union teachers. He regularly talked of receiving dreams from his father.
He also claimed to have a fantastic jump shot, but always passed on any chance to show it. He said he’d done very well in school, but modestly demurred revealing the records — for fear of shaming her, he said. Nor, even after they’d shared showers, did he once produce his birth certificate, short or long form.
He even confided his plans to change his first name to something harder, tougher to replace Casper.
One night as they made long passionate love he cried out, “Julia! Julia!” Which attracted his lover’s attention because her name was Genevieve. Asked to explain Julia nano-seconds later, he cited a long private obsession with Fred Flintstone’s mini-skirted wife.
Informed that her name was Wilma, he suggested Genevieve had surely mis-heard him which, he added, was not an unprecedented opinion during the routine rapture he brought to female voters. “Trust me,” he suggested firmly. So, as millions of her countrymen would blindly do in the future, she did.
Sometimes, he would speak to her romantically noting, for instance, that her voice sounded to his immense ears like wind-chimes. But then he could act strangely too. One day on an idealistic impulse to combat poverty, Genevieve bought a tiny West Highland terrier, a white ball of bouncy, barky fluff.
Her lover routinely spent long evenings at work, outlining his future life plans day-by-day and week-by-week up through the age of at least 51. Inspired by his favorite American philosophers Thompson, Wenner and someone named Al Linsky, he wanted to appear to improve the lot of urban Americans while improving his own even more.
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