Why? Well, I’ll tell you.
1. I’m continuing to go bald.
2. I haven’t lost any weight since January 20.
3. I AM STILL AGING.
4. In March, one of my cats (or more — conspiracy!) peed in the corner of my closet.
5. My hot chocolate this morning was distinctly unsatisfactory.
6. Last week, after four years of service, my beloved Vans sneakers — the ones with bats on them — ripped, making them unusable, and Vans doesn’t make them any more.
8. I was not transformed overnight into a ninja spy with mega awesome secret LASER POWERS.
9. I still have to brush my own teeth; no one else will do it for me.
10. I have not been provided a 2010 Mustang. I mean, really. It’s not like I’d hold out for a GT. The V6 Premium package would be just fine. I’m not greedy.
President Obama has had 100 days to address each of these issues of vast national importance. How many of them has he tackled? Not a one. This is the change we can believe in? I don’t think so. I did not vote for Obama just to have ripped sneakers, unsatisfactory beverages and no spousally-approved hot sex with Rosario Dawson in my bitchin’ new muscle car. There’s a word for the emotion I’m feeling right now, Mr. President. And that word is: Betrayal.
Yes, I understand that President Obama has said that sacrifices need to be made by each of us. Fine. In the spirit of this national sacrifice, I will still brush my own teeth. But Mr. President, you have to meet me half way. Where are my ninja powers? And my Mustang? And why are my telomeres still degrading, meaning that every day I look more and more like Ernest Borgnine? This is not the America I want to live in, Mr. President. You have to do your part, too.
And the fact is, he hasn’t. Not a single one of the items above, which Mr. Obama agreed to solve when he and I met in my mind on that hot sunny day last August when I was trapped in a car with the windows uncracked, has been resolved. You can’t tell me I haven’t been patient. The dude has had 100 days with the entire apparatus of the United States government at his disposal. It’s not like he has other things to do. These things should have been dealt with, quickly, forcefully, fully. But they have not. And now look at me. I’m a middle-aged balding man smelling of cat pee. And it’s all Obama’s fault.
For shame, Mr. President. For shame.
And thus, for your first 100 days, Mr, President, you earn a richly-deserved F. But I still have hope that in the next 100 days, you will stop doing whatever distracting things you are doing and finally focus your attention on the things that really matter; specifically, that thing about Rosario Dawson. America needs that one. Yes it does. Desperately. Oh, and the Mustang, too. Thank you.