If Barack Obama Doesn't Get Me A Record Deal I'm Going to Fucking Freak Out

by Elliott Teller

I consider myself one of those "ask-not-what-your-country-can-do-for-you-ask-what-you-can-do-for-your-country" types. Real old-school, you know? I've sat quietly these last few months, through the bail-ous and the dine-ins, through the elections and the hearings, through the Anderson Cooper and the Blitzer, watching it all and really letting it sink in. But it's 2009, you know? I'm making resolutions up the ying-yang, you hear? I'm dubbing it the "Gimme the Loot" year. The "Gimme that paper" year. I'm saying, now it's time to kick some ass--year. And Public Enemy Resolution #1: make Barack Obama get me that record deal I've always wanted. 

Or else I'm going to be really pissed. Stomping all over my kitchen pissed. Eating a pint of "Cherry Garcia" pissed. In other words: super pissed. Seriously, I'm a good American, always have been. I buy stuff every day. It's ridiculous. I'm buying shit all of the time. It's time somebody just gave me something. I've skimmed this fancy $600 billion bail-out and, frankly, I'm not impressed. A lot of fluff, you know? A lot of crap about bank-injection capital and mortgage-backed securities. Where is the clause section 75-b that gives Elliott tax breaks on a new guitar, a Marshall stack, plenty of wah-wah's and my twenty Mark Knopfler blazers? This all costs money, you hear me Barack? Purple blazers don't just grow on fucking sycamore trees!!! You know that shit, c'mon! It's not like I haven't been working hard, either. I've earned it. I just learned the first twenty seconds of "Eruption" and the chorus to "White Wedding." I've been f-ing sweating trying to learn the solo to "Sweet Child of Mine" but it is f-ing hard. C'mon. I'm trying. 

Until I get my proposed deal, no more Mr. Nice Guy for me. No more Mr. Listening-Politely-To-Your-Speeches-And-Complimenting-The-TV-Screen-On-Your-Impeccable-Ability-To-Wear-Suits. No more Mr. Imagining-What-You-Smell-Like (berries). No more Mr. Putting-Up -Pictures-Of-You-As-My-Wallpaper. No more Mr. Looking-At-Puppies-Online-So-You-Can-Get-The-Best-One. No more Mr. Wikipedia-ing-You-In-The-Afternoon. Shit: I started smoking because of you, Man! I fucking love you. But I'm making resolutions to get out there and be productive. I've got to start my new life, Barack: getting out there and making shit. How am I supposed to work hard and be a functioning member of society if you don't just give me my fucking record deal???

 I'm not wasting time, either. No, no. I want that record deal on the 24th. On paper. Made of dollar bills, baby. Bong-bong! All it takes, Barack, is going in there and writing a law, right? What's so hard about that? Just first-things first, you step into the Oval Office, put your coat down, and make my shit happen. Just write that law, sign that shit, and give me that record deal. Problem solved. I mean, what did I not vote for John McCain for, other than that? What'a say, pal? Let's make this the best 2009 ever!