OBAMAMAMA

Diary of a First Mom


MONDAY. Wake up to a brand new dawn. Reflect on how extraordinary a man Barack is to be leaving his shit all over my bathroom again. Told him about a million times but he's like blah blah sorry mumble bullshit, I keep forgetting where my bathroom be at.

Ooh, but today? It's hush woman, I be making history here, you looking at the President, I can use whichsoever bathroom I choose. You seen my BlackBerry?

Yeah, Mr. Barack-Goddam-Geo-Political-Genius-But-Can't-Find-My-Own-Fucking-Bathroom Obama. I know where your BlackBerry at. In my motherfucking BATHROOM on a pile of grubby-ass clothes you just left all higgledy-piggledy and shit. Use your own goddam bathroom. Mm.

Breakfast time is trés important in the Obama household. The time most likely we all be together: me, Barack, our two beautiful daughters Aretha (10) and Pabulum (7). Priority One is they stay grounded and healthy, with normal childhoods including homework, chores, political party fundraising, dance, selected endorsements and soccer but with a big-ass secret service fucking motorcade for the school run.

Today though I am leading an Obama Charity Breakfast Skip for Leukaemia. So I just be chatting with my family and a photographer and be watching my sassy-ass self on TV. Oh yeah. None of that we ain't ready for Obama bullshit now. We in.

TUESDAY. All morning with the interior designer, discussing ideas for my Extreme Makeover of the 'White' House (mm hm?). Thankfully, Laura Bush is no longer transitioning SHIT. 'Oh my' she kept saying last time, like we planning to move lions and tigers and motherfucking bears into the joint. Why she even care? She and her Jehovah's Witness-ass entourage ain't gonna be there to see Michelle O's Extreme White House Makeover, right?

My interior design team and I be going radical. You better believe it's time for CHANGE, motherfucker. We going for an overall feel of 'hip-hop but not the explicit version'. Feel? We will:

CHANGE floor coverings, from deep-pile cracker-ass carpet to an enduring surface all people can believe in.

CHANGE exterior wall tones to an optimistic mixed-paint kind of wash vibe.

CHANGE heavy curtains to light, opinion-forming shades of betterness.

CHANGE Georgian fireplaces to smart, sassy hydrogen plasma burners maybe.

CHANGE all the furniture, as in REMOVE lame-ass reproduction Regency bullshit and REPLACE its lame Regency bullshit ass with a network of wi-fi urban 'perch points', scatter cushions and shit.

WEDNESDAY. Another bright new day dawns to the sound of our girls deep into a bourgeois bitchout. Our girls, yeah. They be the centre of Barack's and my world. They're the reason he ran for president - to make the world a better place for them and for all children. And their children. And THEIR children.

But Jesus, family breakfasts. Although I adore my job as First Mom, the goddam noise gets up your ass. Aretha's all in my face about the goddam puppy. Can it be golden coloured. Pabulum complaining Britney ain't been round for her sleepover as promised. Correction: Britney HAS NOT been round.

Barack tearing up the place. 'Where my chocolate-peanut protein bars at? Who ate my goddam Presidential chocolate-peanut protein bars?' They with your Blackberry, fool. Up your ass.

But. Shit. Things could be a whoooole lot worse. We could all like be sharing one bathroom. Fistbump Barack goodbye, boom, Pilates.

THURSDAY. Helping working women and families is dear to the heart of the First Mom. Me.

Oh sure, the gifted oratory of Mr. Barack Obama won the hearts of sophisticated young urbanites eating they ooh la la shrimp linguini. But it is I, Shelly From The Block, who be motivating the asses of women and the working classes, the blacks and the hispanics. Yeah, Bug-Faced Bug-Assed Hillary Caterpillary Motherfucking Clinton, bite the end off THAT sucker.

FRIDAY. Headache.

SATURDAY. Family breakfast, we all laughing it up on a live feed for CNN. Barack on for the cameras, look at me, I'm Ali, floating like a butterfly cross the goddam kitchen floor with that shadowboxing shit, bam, playfully punches our lovely girl Pabulum in her jaw. She all shrieking and crying and shit. Barack's press people and the FBI shouting up they sleeves and busting out that human wall move. Goddam Barack, showing the fuck off, she's gonna bruise up. Me and Pabulum supposed to be doing that Mom and Daughter PA in Denver.

The CNN guys go. I fistbump Barack in the fucking throat.

SUNDAY. Helping the Office of the President of the United States is dear to the heart of the First Mom, and that's me, as I am also First Lady, you see what I'm saying.

Oh sure, the gifted oratory of Mr. Barack Obama may have won the hearts of the digital media but it is I, Michelle O, who motivated the magazine people. Yeah, tough break Carla Bruni, hey sing us all another of your French-ass elfin songs on YouTube, bitch. I gots to be swishing like a motherfucker through World Summit cocktail parties in my hot Thakoon Panichgul bodywrap, coy as anotherfucker, not giving out the recipe for my ooh la la shrimp linguini. God Bless America.