The problem with “birthers” is not their fanaticism, it’s the absence of someone beating them over the head with common sense. No one is clamoring for national syndicated airtime to say “wait a minute… do you think no one with authority would have checked to make sure Obama was actually a citizen? Do you think this whole endeavor was a plot by Hillary Clinton to get 2nd place? Or maybe life is just one big South Park episode and Obama and McCain have secretly joined forces to for some ulterior, and ultimately hilarious, motive?”
No, the birthers movement has been met with silence from the moderates and as such it has run wild. And it’s all your damn fault. Donald Trump is not the villain here. Trump is simply the loudest, most prominent voice of a ridiculous movement that you (we? No, you. Definitely you) allowed to escalate to absurd proportions. The success of this “birthers” movement equally stems from the fact that those with common sense simply brushed it aside as a fringe phenomenon made up of irate conservatives. You damned fools.
President Obama was doomed to lose this battle of wits against the witless as soon as we the general public with a lick of sense sat back and said “he’s got this.” Instead of resting on our collective haunches (yes, this time it’s us, not just you) and waiting in vain for the country to let the president, well, be a president, we should have firmly drawn the battle lines with a brazen “are you fucking serious?” directed at all ridiculousness. But nay, we partied, and we loved it. We ran into every bar chanting “my president is Black!” but sat and did nothing when our president was under attack.”
Every time someone demanded to see the President’s birth certificate there should have been ten pundits demanding to see George Bush’s IQ score. You talkin about birth certificates? I’m talkin about long division. If you want proof Obama is a citizen, then I want proof Sarah Palin doesn’t have a penis. If Donald Trump wants to see Obama’s school transcripts then I want to see Trump’s tax records. If you simply MUST have documentation to show that the President of these United States is not an illegal alien that somehow all of INS, USCIS, Border Patrol, and the good sheriffs at Reno 911 missed, then I want indisputable evidence that John McCain did not impregnate Bristol Palin. I want the DNA report on that kid. I want the DNA report verified. I want the licenses of the doctors who did the DNA tests checked. I want the doctors to undergo a lie detector test. I want the hospital finances to be audited. I want the fucking moon and until I get it John McCain is Bristol Palin’s baby daddy. That is a FACT and you are a communisty/socialist/anarchist/traitor until you can prove otherwise.
Sigh… sometimes I feel like Dave Chappelle on jury duty. (I looked forever for the “Nicole Simpson can’t rap!” rant but couldn’t find it. This is a close second)
Part of the problem, however, does rest with the President, who at this point I wish listened to more rap music in his life. He might’ve handled the whole situation differently if he had a “fuck it” mentality. A Jay-Z-esque president would’ve carried his birth certificate deep in his pocket and would have personally invited Donald Trump to reach into his pocket, graze his balls and grasp his shaft to get it (no pause, this is politics). A Kanye West style president would’ve literally wiped his ass with it and mailed it to Donald Trump with a note attached saying “now you know why i’m the shit.” Or he could’ve dismissed the whole thing with a Jadakiss laugh “a-ha!” and walked off. But, he took the intellectual route and provided evidence, thinking that evidence would quell disbelief. No, that’s not how this works. This is a country where the loudest voice wins, and Donald Trump is LOUD.
And not only is Donald Trump LOUD, but you’re QUIET. You can boycott The Apprentice all you want but you’re too late. You failed the President. Trump and the birthers were loud and you were quiet. You were soft, like pillow sheets. Or worse, you were soft like the inside of pockets, and that’s where your recklessly lackadaisical behavior has gotten you. In my pocket. Now why don’t you stay there until you find the balls to challenge ridiculousness.