By Michael Willard
Thank you, Mr. President. By something just short of an executive order, you have given Americans like me permission to be over-weight slobs.
Believe me, it’s not a difficult accomplishment. I’ve been there, done that, and — as the cliche’ goes — “got the T-shirt.” So, be proud of your outrageous jealousy of the Obamas.
I can tolerate your pettiness. So, go ahead and gut nutritious school breakfasts and lunches. My kids are grown. My gosh, an adoring 40 percent turn their lonely eyes to you.
This is my position, even if in my teen days a young President cajoled Americans to be physically fit as he frolicked on Cape Cod with his Kennedy clan tossing that football.
It’s probably not too difficult for you to do the same from a golf cart while munching on a big burger and fries. Just don’t drop mustard on that pristine $200 Polo shirt.
I’ll admit, Mr. President, you have given us one hell of an example as you chow down at the trough like a squealing, caged vealer. The butt-bumping you do to cut in line is admirable, graceful even.
My mouth waters at the thought of boundless calories shoveled into my pie hole as I watch my belly button disappear from sight and the tips of my toes only slightly meet eye gaze.
In the process, of course, Mr. President, you might want to know you are condemning our children to a diminished lifespan, one not seen in the last several decades.
Mortality, though, let’s admit, is over-rated. It’s just a pin-the-tail on the donkey number anyway. And hot damn, for sure kiddies will be well-fed, happy roly-polies.
They will fit right in at the food emporiums and the “all you can eat” breakfast extravaganzas where the neon glow slogan is “Porky’s: Where the hippos go to dine.”
If you want that as your legacy, you’ve earned it. It might even over-shadow your foreign policy cock-ups. You take the golden statue. The rest of us will be satisfied with participation trophies.
Me? I was afraid you might ask. I am not svelte, far from it. I’m a hypocrite at 210 pounds on a frame only two inches taller than the diminutive Napoleon Bonaparte.
I just don’t want our kids to die young, and being diabetic myself, I would not wish that curse on anyone, what with being consigned to finger prick monitoring and gobbling down a stash of pills morning and night.
But, you, sir, are waging a one-man crusade against nutrition and a healthy lifestyle. You are the dark star in the inky sky for the glutenous whose fate will be heart ailments and strokes.
My wife Olga is constantly reminding me of lifestyle choices. I pay attention, but not as well as I should. I sneak ice cream. But where in the hell is Melania for you? We need you upright.
Really now, when the US Department of Agriculture pulled its switcher-roo and smothered Michelle Obama’s initiative increasing vegetables and fruits in school lunches, you could have just said “no”.
Heck, you could have been Capt. Nutrition. But thank God you stood firm on your principles, just like you did with that climate change hoax and swatting down all those clean air provisions.
And you did it on Michelle’s Birthday. Wow, that really gave your crimson-domed acolytes something about which to giggle and spurt PBR suds out the old nostrils.
But, I hate to tell you, Big Guy, your USDA edict wasn’t the all-time comeuppance in turning common sense on its noggin. That honor goes to another Republican, Ronald Reagan.
His agriculture department once declared ketchup a vegetable to cut down on the subsidized cost of public school lunches. That was, though, a PR catastrophe.
It was done the same week First Lady Nancy Reagan ordered $200,000 (in 1980s dollars) china plates for the White House.
I guess gumption and gauche go hand-in-hand.