Written by John Peurach
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Sunday, 10 October 2010

image for LAKERGATE: The President & the First Lady Doth Protest Too Much, We The People Thinks DON'T PUT ME IN COACH! - It's all good to be on the bench and not know what's up with this mess, believe you me.

WASHINGTON D.C. - In a joint move which did nothing but provoke even more speculative inside the Beltway discussion, President and Mrs. Obama both issued further denials of any pre-arranged, co-conspiratorial wrong doing on their part, regarding any and all aspects related to the ongoing Lakergate affair. ("Obama Got Game: The President and the Point Guard" - The Spoof - 4 Oct. 2010)

So named because of still uncertain events surrounding the president's alleged out-of-the-White-House box activities in January of this year, "Lakergate" has come to be current journalistic shorthand for that which is believed to have occurred when the president allegedly vacated his Chief Executive office post long enough to exchange places with Los Angeles Lakers point guard Derek Fisher, and, later on that evening, play a very solid 32 minutes in his stead for the reigning NBA champions during their regularly scheduled game against the hometown Washington Wizards.

Complicating matters even further, in a way that has swiftly enabled the Lakergate affair to, quite dramatically, take on an altogether sensational, and seemingly forever, swirling life of its own, is the now commonly accepted assumption that while passing himself off as President Obama during his overnight stay at the White House, Mr. Fisher was, not only in periodic communication with Russian Prime Minister Putin (apparently to discuss matters centered around current military capabilities of North Korea, and certain, as yet, undetermined statistical information and personal preference proclivities believed to be related to overactive MILF porn diva Ava Lauren), but also had the steadfast faux executive branch wherewithal to conduct a somewhat heated, eleventh hour, closed-door meeting involving two high-ranking members of the Congressional Ways & Means Committee, plus a (not-so-surprising) late-arriving Dish Network Satellite TV installer, while somehow maintaining steady text message contact with KCAL -TV (LA) sports reporter John Ireland, who was, at the time, otherwise professionally engaged, covering the game in question at the Verizon Center in Washinton D.C.'s Chinatown district.

Meanwhile, adding a little more personal grist to the mill, so to speak, is the now fairly common belief that while operating under the guise of the Commander in Chief as he was out doing his basketballing, Mr. Fisher may have inadvertently recklessly toyed with the First Lady's typically rambunctious and, for the most part, entirely receptive affections, on at least two and one-half occasions, while assigned nearby White House Secret Service were otherwise preoccupied with watching the 1 AM broadcast of "SportsCenter" on ESPN.

All of which, as it turned out, was the necessary enquiring mind-like spark which apparently fueled much of the collective interest of the somewhat testy White House Press Corps as they descended upon the suddenly open season Obama's during a recent White House state dinner in honor of current Lincoln Bedroom boarder, actor/comedian Mario Cantone. At which point, a highly misguided impromptu press conference suddenly broke out, while the President and Mrs. Obama seeked temporary shelter behind legendary, quick-witted, ultra-furry, award show comedy writer, Vruce Bilanch, who, at the time was well into the process of scarfing down an abundant supply of fried wantons, which he apparently had collected in his pulled up, 3-sizes too small, "Petticoat Junction" t-shirt, after having gathered what he could from an assortment of glum-looking White House kitchen help circulating about the State Dining Room.

"Seriously, I'd like to meet the gentleman, or whoever, that started this vicious set of rumors in the first place," President Obama said, as the press closed in around he, Mrs.Obama, and a noticeably all too bubbly Bilanch.

"So would I," quipped Vruce. "If only to find out what he, or she, knew, and when, well, when they knew it. And, hopefully were soon enough in a position to know it again, if you know what I mean. And I'm sure some of you long tooth ones out there do, and, for my money, aren't done yet, no matter what they say about old dogs, new tricks, and never doing it where you live, or eat. Not that anything like has ever prevented me, but there's always a first time, or so I've been told."

"Surely Mr. President, there's more here than meets the eye. What else, say you?" asked Chip Reid of CBS News.

"First off, there must be more important matters of national concern," President Obama replied. "Especially when it comes time to otherwise responsibly inform the American people, via your daily frothy reminders, what they'll need to know, and when they'll need to know it, when it comes time for them to make crucial and decidedly valuable decisions, with regards to the upcoming midterm elections. And, second of all, don't call me Shirley."

"That's telling them, Mr. Prez," said Bilanch. "Now give 'em all a one-two. Especially that cute one in the back."

"Mr. President….David Corn, 'Mother Jones'…..."

"Mother schmother," said Bilanch, peering over his rosy colored spectacles at the tall, blue-eyed, bit of terrific something, then looming before him . "Dibs on you to join me in the potato sack race, okay? Plus, maybe you can stand around where I can't see you, while cake is being served, alright? What do you say, is it a date?"

"How do you respond to the constant allegations, Mr. President," continued David Corn, "which seem to suggest that due to the increase stress of leading the nation, you were decidedly derelict in your Chief Executive duties, and may have put your shrinking legacy in even further jeopardy, and now have since seen fit to stonewall any further examination of what may, or may not have transpired, between you and the Los Angeles Lakers. All of which puts you currently where you are now, which is either on the verge, or already in the process, of abusing the public trust privilege of the office to which you were elected. Mmmmm? Stop me if I'm getting warm, Sir."

"Oh, you're warm alright, which is definitely what's making me starting to sizzle where it counts, too," said Bilanch. "Let me guess, you went to an eastern school, right? And from the looks of it, you rang the bell, too, now didn't you? Come on, you're among friends, tell us the truth now."

"Look, I've said it before and I'll say it again," said President Obama, waving his finger at the press, with a determined and defiant sense of urgency. "I did not play basketball with that team."

"Well, then who did you play for?" shouted Sam Stein of the Huffington Post.

"And are you currently entertaining plans to ever do something as inappropriately foolish as this again? And, if so, how about with the Knicks?" asked Helene Cooper of the New York Times.

"Uh-uh, not the Knicks," said Mrs. Obama.

She quickly then turned to speak directly to her husband, while shielding him even further from the jackal-like press with a rather substantial assist from her powerfully sculpted arms, then on full public display, and otherwise bulging freely outside of her simply stunning sleeveless Vera Wang original, cream-colored formal.

"You don't have to answer any of these questions," she cautioned. "Besides that, they're really only after me, not you."

"Mr. President, Mr. President………" cried Lester Kinsolving of "WorldNetDaily," "Are you now, or have you ever been a member of any other NBA team that we would recognize as being otherwise valid in the hearts and minds of America's sporting life public?"

"Nice try," said Bilanch to Mrs. Obama. "Now they'll never ask you about the sleeveless Vera Wang. Which is funny, since that's what the fellas on the cruise ship used to like to call the busboy from the Philippines who, oh never mind, that's neither here not there. Or anywhere else, for the matter, and certainly doesn't need to be brought out in the open. Especially now, with this bunch. Mr. Mother Jones, not included, of course, on grounds that escape me, at the moment, but shouldn't once we get comfy."

Just then, a rather boisterous young man all dressed up in an eye-catching (yet, stomach turning) red, white, and blue NBA warm-up suit, snaked his way to the front lip of the full-press onslaught.

"Mr. and Mrs. President, Clipper Darrell here," said the young man, in an almost sing-song along, chant-like manner. "What about us, the other team in Los Angeles? We need help too, you know!"

"Los Angeles has another team?" asked Mrs. Obama, looking unusually aghast for a change. "Who are they??"

She quickly turned to the president, who shrugged, then looked over at Vruce Bilanch for help.

"Don't look at me," warned Bilanch. "I still can't get over the fact that he showed up looking like he wants to get run up a pole before I do."

President Obama looked back at the young man, then asked him, "The Clippers, right?"

"Yes, yes!!" said the young man. "The Clippers. The Los Angeles Clippers. The let's go, Clippers! Let's go, Clippers. We need all the help you can give, and I for one would give my kingdom, and my horse, to see you out there in a Clipper uniform playing instead of Baron Davis."

"Did you say, Baron Davis?" President Obama asked, suddenly more interested in something heretofore not exactly on his menu, of sorts.

"Which one is he?" Mrs. Obama asked her husband.

President Obama quickly looked at the young man, who just then started doing the wave with a large foam hand equipped with a "We're #1!" finger sticking straight up.

"He's the one with the beard, right?" asked President Obama.

"Bingo!" screamed the young man. "Yes, the Baron of Davis does indeed sport a beard, and a rather sizable amount of full-blown whiskers, at that."

"Oooooh, count me in" said Bilanch. "Or, at least with the full-blown part."

"No beards!" said Mrs. Obama, putting her foot down.

"No beards?" asked President Obama, for a moment confused.

"You heard me," she said, through her still smiling, yet now decidedly clinched teeth. "No beards!"

"Oh, right," said President Obama. "No beards."

Vruce Bilanch couldn't help but jump in on this one.

"Watch out you two," he warned. "You say that one more time, or just loud enough, and half the guys standing around at this shindig will have to hit the road, and most likely will be required to do the wee-wee walk by themselves, all the way home."

It was at this point that Mario Cantone suddenly came barging in to the head of the class, so to speak (it wouldn't be the first time, and in hindsight, was probably why he found 7th grade Don Bosco Prep so disheatening) to quickly demand some up close and personal attention of his own.

"Hey, what in the hills are alive with the sound of music I only want to plotz to is going on here?" exclaimed the intense head-to-toe bundle of tightly packed musical comedy raw power. "I thought that tonight was supposed to be all about this here child! So, what gives, hmmmm?"

"What gives is, him, and her," said Bilanch, tilting his head toward the Obama's, as they attempted to talk amongst themselves, as the press advanced around them accordingly. "And, hopefully they figure out something quick, or else, somebody's gonna have lots of splainin' to do because no one could figure out who's itch was supposed to be taken care of first."

"Yeah, well, that's marriage for ya," said Mario. "Even in the best and brightest of fish bowls."

"I know," said Vruce, "And if we find my keys, we can both drive out of here before anyone gets all the wiser."

"As if that's even a consideration," said Mario, "Especially with the way they've all been going out their way to ignore moi this evening"

"As if," replied Vruce.

As if, indeed.

In other words, nothing but net, and, of course, enough to hang us all.

-30-

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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