David Brooks Asks For Safe Recovery Post-Skin Surgery

Dear God,

Thank you deeply for answering my prayer. I waited months and months for this opportunity of a lifetime. It was inspirational. Simply unbelievable. I have no idea how to repay you.

Wait! Did I promise to accomplish something for you? Allow me to peruse my notes. You see, once again, I am unable to remember conversations and events unless I write them down. I am so embarrassed… Here it is. In this letter to you dated Nov. 5, 2009, it says that “a private meeting alone with President Barack Obama is owed one David Brooks.” Just me. Not me and a bunch of other suckmonkeys. Since my prayer failed to fully fulfill, I owe you squat.

That is fine. I will not hold it against you. It was a lovely lunch, according to my notes. It was also all officially off the record, I see. Obama’s orders. Therefore, it would be inappropriate for me to divulge the material discussed during our meal. Or would it? You are God, but complicating matters is the fact that there is a slight chance you do not exist. Only 78 percent of those polled by Gallup in 2008 believe in you, and that is a sharp decline from nine years prior, so you have left us with some doubt. Moreover, if you compare your numbers to Obama’s popularity plus that of Congress and the Republican Party, you are powerless.

But either way, it matters not that…  Wait! I have met with Obama before. Where is my tablet? Yes, yes! We talked about Reinhold Niebuhr. Indeed! This is what I wrote a couple of years ago. I paraphrase his quote, “You must use power as it corrupts you.” I suppose there was no need to thank you in that first place then. Really I must strengthen my long-term memory. My mind is that of a parrot. It is able to mimic almost any animal of significance on earth. At least the ones I have met.

And what is this? My notes say that during our last lunch meeting at the White House, all of us had an orgy? Really? Luckily, it was a private affair. I would face professional embarrassment should the hoi polloi acquire knowledge of the first round of my “medical procedures.”

Oh, now it is returning to memory as I thumb through older sketch books. Usually, secret White House press orgies would consist of those gathered participating in a display of high debauchery. Most times they are sexually deviant in nature. The Bush White House orgies, for example, were known for the angora sweaters worn by the transvestites in the Cabinet, et al. Clinton’s would have been stellar had he included more barnyard fatties north of the Mason-Dixon. Cheney’s orgies were exceptional, although I could never bring myself to ejaculate into “Ilsa” Cheney’s mouth like his “Nazi she-wolves” wanted. Or so my old friend Bob Novak wrote me. My original notes are lost.

I was surprised by Obama’s though. The media gatherings he organized as a senator in private were mediocre at best. Or so I am told. I never went. And if I had notes on them, I most likely burned them long ago because they were that supremely tedious. My expectations were great going into this latest lunch orgy since Obama surmounted destiny to become “The Most Powerful Man On Earth.”

I cannot say I had no preconceived notions of what his secret press orgy would be like. As a matter of fact, I expected Andy Rosenthal, Gail Collins and myself would gangbang Mara Liasson, and David Gergen would fist Bill Burton while David Axelrod shat on Chris Cillizza’s face. Once completed, my notes would be so stained of scotch, peanut butter, and other assorted orgy juices that I would never have to worry about anyone deciphering them.

Such was not the case in total. My invitation said the theme would be “Versailles” – after the luxurious palace erected by Louis XIV of France. This piqued my curiosity. Once there, we sat around this huge table of foods. We were ordered to eat. When the table was empty, the attendants brought more food. And we were told to eat that as well. And we did. It went on like this for three days and three nights. It was terrifyingly brilliant.

When one of us tried to leave, we were escorted back to the table. In the middle of the first day, I vomited thinking that this was a reenactment of Reagan’s Romanesque secret press orgies. But I was mistaken. I was also ordered to eat my vomit. I believe we all vomited upon learning that the food – from the soup to the pastry fillings – had been prepared with fresh cat excrement. This must be why my notes reek of intestinal fluids.

By the end of this unholy baptism, our allegiance to the Executive Branch was once again confirmed. All the while Obama had worn this elaborate five-foot-tall wig that depicted the Apollo 11’s lunar landing of 1969. The entire ordeal was so “Marie Antoniette meets 2010: The Year We Make Contact.” His face, of course, had that white powdery makeup on it complete with a mole. I thought, “This guy is good. This guy is really good!” because I love eating shit from politicos. When I went around the room to get the group’s reaction like a journalist is supposed to do, they agreed with my assessment. No more do we doubt his manhood, his tenacity, his political savvy, his commitment level, or his determination. He gave us what we wanted: amour-propre!

I was not always such a devotee to raw, unchecked American political power. I was Canadian. I once thought I could dab Nutella on my nose and be a real badass around Washington. I quickly discovered I was wrong. You must felch Washington’s anus in order to gain access to power, or you are nothing. It is a bi-partisan thing, and I, of course, am known around this District as the Michael Phelps of shit swimming. I lap the newbies that think they have what it takes to be an insider.

Boy, the stuff I get away with and still keep my job! I am so thankful I write what I write without circumspect. It helps writing for an organ such as the New York Times. Take the Fort Hood shooting, for example. I could care less if whoever did it was Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. Or Scientologist! It makes no difference to me. There are extremists everywhere.

My job is not without its hazards. I would see a significant cut in pay if I merely pointed out that more Americans die as a result of the salmonella poisoning each year than the U.S. troops have died in Iraq and Afghanistan this year, or the year before that, or the year before… If I were to empathize with a faction, it would be people who are addicted to peanuts. It must have been extremely hard on them this past January when there was that national peanut recall. Hundreds of Americans became ill and maybe eight died due to salmonella in peanut products.

Rumor has it that the U.S. Army in Europe went so far as to remove some of its jars of peanut butter from its shelves for a time. But maybe the Army’s move was too “politically correct.” Maybe the Pentagon should have permanently banned all peanut products from the armed forces rather than risk salmonella death to our troops. Or maybe better policy would force corporations to quit pouring bird feces into their post-roasted peanut products. Salmonella thrives in avian poo, by the way. I should know. I swim in it for fun.

In fact, it is just not enough to be a “brown noser” in Washington anymore. Every political hack in this town has both nostrils wide open. I feel I must now turn it up a notch. With this imaginative president, how could I afford not? I must become the living embodiment of shit journalism. I am not only going the Kirk Lazarus route. My skin will be surgically darkened as well as genetically infused with bacteria that will give off an incredible odor when scratched.

For better or for worse, I am not doing this to make myself feel better. I am doing this for the sake of defending “conventional wisdom.” Originally, I had considered darkening my skin to conspicuously display my reverence to President Obama for at most the next three years, but after Obama’s secret press luncheon, I was inspired. Being covered in shit is right up my alley. Having a scratch-and-sniff shit skin will allow me to prostrate myself before American imperial power on a little more permanent basis.

My doctors say that since the procedure is experimental, I might have shit skin for a year or two after the next presidential election. I am not worried. I have faith that Obama will win. Sarah Palin has no chance. Neither does Bobby Jindal, Mike Huckabee, or Mitt Romney. My only concern is that once I do this, someone like George Will will “keep up with the Jones.” I can just see him grappling for a way to squirt diarrhea out his eyes.

In any event, I ask you, Lord, to please grant me a safe recovery from these procedures. I cannot afford to become permanently disfigured as a result either. I must remain fit to keep my fealty to Obama intact. But if you should see fit to transplant me from this earthly existence, so be it. By the way, on the chance that you do exist and should see Tim Russert soon, give him my warmest regards. I miss his flabby ass at the orgies. The man had one hell of a mouth.

In your undying love,
David Brooks

[Special note to “Dear God” readers: Please email this letter to three of your closest friends and “follow me” on True/Slant because I appreciate your support. Thank you, ND]