Dear Mr. President:
I’ve got a real problem with you. Sure you’re smart, strong, handsome, a brilliant orator and you can even sing like Al Green (although I’ll match you note for note any day on “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane”). But who the hell gave you permission to be funny? I’m talking to you, Mr. Leader-of-the-Free World! Give a comic a break! I’m fine with the occasional funny line in a speech, but when you turn into the Sexy-Liberal-in-Chief like you did on Saturday at the White House Correspondents Dinner, that’s my turf you’re treading on…and you don’t want to mess with Mama.
I mean, I was telling Donald Trump jokes while you were still in Hawaii or some other made-up state. And I invented drunk-texting, not Hillary Clinton. Or even Hilary Rosen. You’re stealing my material, Mr. President. And that doesn’t sit well with me. You even had the nerve to tell a gay joke on Saturday night:
“In my first term, we repealed the policy known as ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’ In my second term, we will replace it with a policy known as, ‘it’s raining men.”
Barack Obama, we are throwing down. I’ll take you on at any open mic in any comedy club in America. And don’t think you can use the Secret Service to take me out if I’m funnier than you. It will take more than $30 for me to walk away from this fight.
On the other hand, for $50 I’ll give you all my jokes and throw in Jim Ward. Deal?
Love, Stephanie
