Ed’s note: I really sent the following letter to The White House. No joke.
Dear Mr. President:
It doesn’t quite come out the way Marilyn Monroe whispered/sang it to JFK, but man does it feels so good to say … Mr. President. It’s also strange having a President whose name is flagged in every spell check.
Think backward: Bush, Clinton, Bush, Reagan, Carter, Ford, Nixon, Johnson and Kennedy. Spell check doesn’t question one of them. Even Eisenhower gets through unscathed. You should mandate Bill Gates and Steve Jobs work hastily to fix that bug.
Now, let’s get serious.
I’m not writing this to berate you about your missteps thus far (though the Daschle tax thing was a bit much). Besides, W. and Dick left you and “Nobody messes with” Joe a real mess, didn’t they? I’ll say this: You nailed the presidential address to Congress last night. The line to American parents — the one about turning off the television and reading books to their kids — was the most important thing you’ve said thus far as President.
Still, I have one minor issue to address.
Actually, this doesn’t quite feel like an address but more a belated reply that I can’t send. You see, I currently have 327 e-mails in my G-Mail inbox from you, David Plouffe, First Lady Michelle Obama and your other subordinates from that last year or so. But I’m disgruntled because I can’t reply.
It’s like being in a relationship with a girl who never answers your calls but expects you to pick up when she rings your number. Didn’t Lauryn Hill say she learned about the importance of reciprocation during her Miseducation (she clearly took a lesson or six in baby-making)?
Now, I’ll admit that I haven’t read every e-mail. I’ve skimmed fewer than 10. Most of the time I just mark them “already read.” I’m not the best citizen, I know. At least I don’t delete them. That would make me feel guilty.
The problem is that the e-mails are always addressed “Dear Damon,” but I never feel they are speaking to me alone. They’re written for an entire political party or nation. I’m nitpicking, I know. I could easily unsubscribe from the list serve. But that would make me feel un-American, and I don’t want my fellow citizens calling Rev. Jeremiah Wright and I best friends, either. (We both know he’s not that bad a person.)
Wouldn’t it be nice, though, if citizens could access their president the same way they can dial up their God? I mean, we can pray or talk directly to God at will. But neither of those things can we do with you, our president, Barack Almighty. No, I’m not seriously comparing you to Jesus or His Father. But I’m sure there are plenty of not-so-tickled conservative skeptics who would swear that I see you as my savior.
But I know the truth. You’re just a self-professed, chain-smoking sinner man. You probably have 1,000 minions reading the White House mail. But I want to be able to e-mail you directly … not mail you a letter that you may or may not read. (I think it’s awesome that you are personally replying to some letters.)
Isn’t there a supercomputer that scans all the e-mails you get, then forwards the useful messages to your top secret Crackberry? Isn’t your Crackberry supposed to be that supercomputer? Didn’t you tell Matt Lauer on SuperBowl Sunday that it turns into Bumblebee from “Transformers?”
Is this recession so bad that we can’t even afford the best Crackberry/Transformer/Mustang taxpayer money can buy for our new President? That’s not cool. Clearly, another job for Jobs and Gates.
Anyway, I only want to reply to one of your e-mails so I can suggest a few dog names for the girls. I won’t share them here. I’ll hold them, the dog names, as ransom until I get the e-mail address you refused Lauer, but said you’d give to his son. That’s my only demand. Let’s make it happen, captain.
P.S. Please remind your Secret Service agents that this is a harmless, well-intentioned joke. I know they might flag this as a potential threat, and I don’t need/want them at my doorstep an hour from now.