Yesterday, Gawker-loving traitor Jim Newell asked the cogent question “Why did Obama ask Allah to shoot bolts of lightning at soldiers’ graves?” Now, obviously our president didn’t specifically ask the Muslin deity to desecrate our fallen heroes’ final resting place. No, it was more of a tit-for-tat thing: so long as Allah’s enforcers ensured that the President could spend Saturday downing Labatts Ice and enjoying a hockey game without being bothered by tough, hard-hitting questions from the White House Press Corps, He could do whatever He wanted to the bodies of American soldiers on Monday.
So yeah, as you’ve probably heard, the entire White House press corps got into some sort of goofy tussle Saturday with the Fruit of Islam, the Nation of Islam’s private bow-tied paramilitary service. This is because one of Obama’s neighbors is Louis Farrakhan, and Obama was spending the evening at another neighbor’s house watching the Blackhawks beat the loathsome trash-monsters from Philly in Game One of the Stanley Cup Finals. The press mob was just chillin’ in a van outside Farrakhan’s house, and then the Fruit of Islam dudes came out and mildly hassled them and muttered darkly into their walkie-talkies, and then the press’s Secret Service agent (wait, what?) made the reporters get back into the van, but some of them asked if they could use Farrakhan’s bathroom, and nothing came of it. It’s all mildly funny, and if you’re interested you can read the as-it-happened coverage from the very serious New York Times.
But! Though this is no doubt extremely Not News to those Power Brokers who are In The Know, etc., it is worth re-emphasizing, for Comedy, that there is literally a van full of people who follow the president around constantly, just in case. Much sadder and funnier than some NoI guys and the Secret Service agent with the worst of all Secret Service assignments getting twitchy by turns is the concept of a bunch of reporters huddled together for warmth and companionship all evening, without even access to a bathroom, growing increasingly punchy and irritated, waiting for the president to emerge from his friend’s house so they can shout questions at him about, we don’t know, what he thinks of the Flyers’ penalty killing or something. Presumably they are there if we go to war with Canada on short notice so that they could be the first to get a “no comment” on whether Toronto will be taken by naval assault or paratroopers, but still: what a sad group of sad people.