God, having a crush on Obama is becoming more cliché every day- if he wasn’t so damn hot, I would probably have to stop crushing on him just to try to maintain semblance of uniqueness. So, it is with a heavy heart and a deep sense of shame at my inability not to follow the crowd that I bring you the new Obama girl video, starring the latest Obamaniac.

This was the promo running on the New York Times’ page this morning. I see one of two possibilities: either Obama is truly that magnificent a specimen of manhood that he simply cannot be caught looking unattractive (a possibility I do not discount); or someone in the department responsible for this promo shares my (completely cliché) crush on Obama. Aw, honey, it’s okay, we all do.

Nicholas, how do you expect me to walk away when you insist on thrusting yourself into my consciousness with every opportunity? It is unfair, my love, for you to take up with that French hussy and yet strive to keep me on a string. If you don’t want me, please let me go and find someone new! Those pictures of you being all compassionate and stuff were truly too much for me, and people have begun to talk. [NY Times]

My Darling Nicholas,
My friends told me I was foolish to allow this to happen between us when you were on the rebound, but I stubbornly refused to listen. I thought that with the expediency with which you obtained your divorce that you were serious about making our relationship work despite our many differences and those pesky security goons constantly dragging me away. I see now that I was quite terribly mistaken.

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It is normally hard for a candidate not to look kinda silly doing his/her obligatory Thanksgiving charity work/photo op. John Edwards, here, schools the others. His tips: don’t wear a suit; wear well-fitting jeans that don’t look starched or not previous worn; have excellent posture; use less product than normal in your hair; do something manlier than serving food; look as though you’re annoyed by the publicity; and be smoking hot. Yum. [Photo courtesy of the Associated Press]

Félicitations, le Napoleon de mon coeur! I know you laugh today with delight as those naughty rail unionists agree to head back to work. Perhaps, with these protests behind us, you can find the time to return my phone calls, or letters or emails? If that is not too much to ask, mon amour. [LA Times]

My dear, large-nosed Gaul, I know it must be so confusing for you. On the one hand, you are praised for being more appropriately American and, on the other hand, derided for being against darker-skinned foreigners taking jobs from your countrymen. Pay them no mind, my sweet. I know there is at least one foreigner you would let into your heart and that of France. [NY Sun, NY Times]

Mon petit croque-monsieur, I know the distaste with which you regard that proffered hand. I, too, would be surprised if it were well-washed and, even in France, one must have hygiene standards. But, truly, it would be a good thing if the distasteful man could secure the release of those prisoners that is your heart’s desire (besides me, of course) and I cannot help but admire your fortitude again. If you need to rid your mind of the memory of his voice, call me, okay? [Yahoo News]

Don’t let those pesky strikes stress you out, mon cher. When you have to shield your eyes from light of the fire that burns between us, you must know that such things are mere bumps on the road we will travel together. [NY Times]

Michelle, I know this look. I have given this look. This is the look that a woman gives another person when s/he’s saying something so dumb you’re afraid it might rub off. This is the “bitch, please” look. I love that you gave this look on stage, in public, to Ann Romney. I enjoy that I sorta get the impression that, while you’ll be disappointed for your husband if he loses, you won’t be so terribly put out for yourself if he does. Please don’t get all Botoxed and start acting like some sort of Stepford wife. Please?

Ah, my sweet Frenchman, why do you insist on teasing me with the innuendo that there are women other than I?