They are not as good as their reputations. They trip down the staircase and get praised for rising to the balcony in a theatre with no second story.
There is something small inside Obama which represents a spiritual decrease and a demise that is falling, falling into its own naïve ambition.
It is not his fluent mistakes but his lack of character that makes him a hollow man in a waste land where T.S. Eliot turns his eyes like Dr. T. J. Eckleburg in Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.
You don’t have to indicate the variety of Obama’s failures to justify hating him like an inadvertent enemy in a fox hole where he has stocked live foxes and told you that it is for your sake.
He is the wolf that ate his own people while he smiled and pointed out that he was the messiah. Oprah Winfrey called him the messiah.
But what does she know, eating snacks like a representative for weight loss of control? Am I saying that fatness is a sin?
Shame on me. But girth does cause distance. You can’t get close. Maybe that’s one of the reasons Oprah never married. Or is she just a politically correct lesbian?
I have no proof of that. This is not court; it is game. I hypothesize because I hypothesize. I say what I say and I am what I am. I’m Popeye the Sailor man. What do I know?
Oprah has become the billionaire home girl, crying about her imagined profile. She wants to be a tough girl, a rowdy victim but she is just a plump, soft rich girl. She makes up stories about being bullied for shoplifting in Switzerland. She wants to pretend that she is mistreated when she is blame’s index finger.
It’s not enough that she is rich and famous. She wants the moral righteousness of being one of the mistreated. She wants to be rich and poor; loved and hated. She wants the whole portion of other lives on her plate.
Oprah is like Obama. They are television screens broadcasting clichéd shows; they are the images of undeserved prominence; they are the static we feel when we see unmerited success in a hierarchy of imagined achievement.
They are the injustice that they accuse America of being. They are the success of failure, the imitation of their manipulated images.
They are soul sisters. Without the soul. They are ducks. Without the pond. And their little sycophants keep quacking for them no matter how arrogant their poses or destructive their mannerisms.
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