I Heart Sasha Obama

Okay, I love both the Obama girls. Malia, the oldest, is so beautiful and poised–I’m 18 years older than she is and I don’t have half her dignity and grace, which makes me feel just great about myself. But my favorite one is the little hellion, Sasha, the one who will be throwing keggers in the Rose Garden when she’s 14.

Sasha’s great because Sasha’s dad is the leader of the free world and Sasha doesn’t give a fuck. Sasha cares about three things: Miley Cyrus, the Jonas Brothers, and puppies. That’s it.

I saw a photograph from right before Barack’s inauguration. The Obamas were on their way to the big stage but they had to stop because Sasha thought it was a good time to take off her shoes and start dancing. IN THE CAPITOL BUILDING. This is why she is my new favorite human.

I like to picture Michelle coming back to the White House from a weeklong trip and asking the very proper White House butler how things went while she was gone.

“Ah, madam. So glad you asked. The older girl was delightful–quiet, well-behaved, studious, a portrait of charm and elegance. I could not have asked for a better charge. [clears throat] Then there was the younger one…

Let me give you an example. On the morning after your departure, I was woken at 4 -no, no, 3 a.m. by the younger child, who entered my room without knocking to inform me that there was a tiger under her bed. I assured her that there was no such tiger, and she insisted that there was a tiger with–and I quote, madam–’a rocketlauncher.’

I escorted the child back to her room and peered under her bed where there was, in fact, no rocket-wielding tiger. I attempted to leave, at which point I was instructed that it was tea time. No, no, not real tea–that I might have actually enjoyed. Invisible unicorn tea, which is invisible tea made by invisible unicorns who apparently also utilize invisible teacups. I complied with the child’s demands that I sit at the foot of her bed and pass the invisible sugar. When I attempted to take a lump for myself, I was informed that I was being “rude,” as I had failed to offer said sugar to the lion sitting on my lap. When I said that there was no lion, she said, ‘That’s what you said about the tiger, too, and now his feelings are hurt.’

I was then forced to get on the floor once more and look under the bed, at which point, unbeknownst to me, the tiger ate my eyeball. When I protested that my eyeball was quite healthy, I was told that I was a ’stupidhead.’

At this point I attempted once more to take my leave and was informed that if I did not put on a tutu immediately, ‘Daddy’ would send me to ‘a bad place forever.’ As the tutu was hers, it was far too small for my frame, so I was instructed to put it on my head and…krump.

Which I promptly did.

But I did not feel good about myself, madam, and I don’t know that I ever shall again.”