Right Wing Fantasy Tales #1: The Plot Begins


Barack Obama sat at the Resolute Desk with his shoes – purchased at exorbitant taxpayer expense – disrespectfully placed on its surface. He was unusually happy.

“Everything is going according to plan,” he said out loud, relishing yet another display of narcissism, for a party of one this time.

“Thanks to my allies in the mainstream media and ACORN, I’ve been elected to a second term. I’ve imposed socialism in the form of health care reform, and I still have three years left to destroy America from the inside.”


He reached into the top pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph of Communist Mao Zedong. He gingerly handled it, as it was one of his most prized possessions. It still slightly smelled of China, where it had originally been purchased.

“I wish you were still alive,” Obama said to the photo, “We have imposed your dream in the heart of capitalism. Everything is going according to plan.”

Joe Biden

At that moment, the oval office doors swung open and Vice Presdent Joe Biden ran into the room.

“Mister President!” he yelled, waving his hands above his head. Biden’s tie was askew and his pants were too short, stopping just above his ankles. Obama had repeatedly told him to get his clothes tailored, but each time Biden responded with a rambling anecdote about growing up in Scranton.

“Joe, can’t you see I’m having some ‘me’ time?”

“Yeah boss, but –”

“Didn’t I tell you about knocking?”

“Sure thing, boss, but –”

“This better be good.”

“It is boss, it is. The guys over at NSA sent me a message to my pager, and like I always do I call them back, pronto.”


Obama was beginning to lose interest. Whenever he was not the personal focus of a conversation, he did this. He was just so into narcissism. He loved himself. A lot. A whole lot.

“So I talk to them and I ask about their kids and wow have they got a sweet dog and –”

“Joe! Focus.”

“Right, right, right boss. So they tell me that their spy computer or whatever has intercepted some of our enemies plotting against us.”

“Yes. That happens. ISIS, ISIL, Al Qaeda, Israel, etc.”

“No, none of those boss. Romney. Mitt Romney.”

Obama peed a little in his pants.

“The Mitt Romney? The guy who, the only way I could beat him, was to use the underhanded technique of appealing to ladies like they have valid, equal opinions?”

“Same one.”

“Get Hillary on the phone.”


Mitt Romney was riding Rafalca his horse bareback, its mane clenched in his fists, the veins bulging out of the back of his hand. As he approached the predetermined point, he released the horse and propelled himself up in the air.

The horse sped away and Romney angled himself, landing on top of a metal plate.

“Delightful,” Romney said.

In response, a small bell went off and the metal plate divided into two. Romney was next inside a full-size plastic tube, rapidly descending to his subterranean headquarters. It was referred to as “UnderMitt” within the Romney family.

When Romney finally landed at the bottom of the tube, he stepped out and took in the RomneyComputer 9000, a 72-foot screen custom-lodged into the rock walls of UnderMitt.


“Computer, friend, activate.”

The screen shimmied and a three-dimensional floating head of Ronald Reagan appeared.

“It’s morning in America, Mitt.”

“Always is, Mr. President. What’s the situation?”

“Our socialism generators, randomly placed in blue and swing states, have detected the early warning signs of a socialism-generated tidal wave hitting America.”


“Of course. We blame Obama, as per our protocols.”

“Damn it!” Romney bellowed, slamming his closed-fist against the console. “This will not stand!”