Backyard Barbecue Barack..

It's supposed to be all folksy and all that. You know, the prez hunkered down with some old friends, burgers and dogs on the grill, a cooler of Pabst Blue Ribbon icing down, insects buzzing around in the gloaming..

(I don't know if you've ever had insects buzzing around in your gloaming before, but it ain't a pretty sight.)

Presently, one of his just-met-yesterday-newly-minted-life-long-campaign-trail-buddies turns to him and, beer in hand and asks, "Say, Barry, what's this I hear about those pesky Bush middle-class tax cuts expiring in January? You gonna let that happen to us ordinary folks?"

Slowly, the object of the question uncoils himself from his lawn chair, puts down a half-empty Bud, grabs a microphone, and shuffles to the center of the throng.

Knitting stops, the kids cease frolicking with the pet Labrador on an adjacent expanse of lawn, discussions of how the Buckeyes will do this Fall go quiet and expectant eyes turn to this slender figure in dress slacks, a white shirt with the obligatory I'm-just-a-relaxing-working-stiff-rolled-up sleeves as he does his characteristic back of the head scratch and lisps out some mealy-mouthed explanation about how he and his triumvirate will remove the remaining shards of viscera from an already gutted and moribund economy.

All the while, the carefully selected family of four -- balding middle-aged hubby, doting but intelligent wife, and the boy and girl, all typical to the max -- sit at a nearby picnic table and adoringly absorb his Pablumesque blandishments as if he were adorned in a robe and sandals and yakking away about how the meek will inherit this and blessed are those who do that while dividing half a dozen mackerel and six loaves of sliced Wonderbread.

So this is his new shtick; he is going to meet with every one of us, each Joe and Jane, dropping in on us during a quiet, peaceful, middle America Sunday while we are out in our back yards. He will languish in that idyllic setting, explaining patiently how he is working hard for us and -- heck -- he was just driving by and smelled the patties on the grill and -- just mustard and a pickle if you please -- wanted to have a little chat with his favorite middle-class Americans.

Like FDR's fireside chats and Jimmy Carter's cardigan, the backyard barbecue has now become this idiot's trademark du jour, his passport for the week into the kaleidoscope of harsh realities we face. And it is nothing more than a facetious vehicle for this bombastic, narcissistic piece of crap to insinuate himself, his regime, and the unrelenting assault of this government into our lives..

..but the dress slacks, white shirt, tie, and microphone at a weenie roast?

One surmises the teleprompter would have been a bit over the top.

-30-