Dear throngs of tourists,
In case you haven’t noticed (or in case you were just among the thousands who missed it through no fault of your own… Bahahaha!), the inauguration of President Barack Obama is over. It was Tuesday, in fact. And today it’s Friday. Yet, incredibly, many of you are here. This is not working out for us.
You see, we actually have work to do. We also had work to do on Monday and Tuesday, but we couldn’t get it done because, well, of you. So it’s now Friday, and it feels like a Wednesday productivity-wise, but the second consecutive Saturday we’ve had to work energy-wise, and yet… you see where I’m going with this.
And now, on this busy day for us, you’re still everywhere. Still completely unsure how to use the world’s easiest public transit system, still unable to get our of your own – let alone our – way, seemingly unable to walk in a straight line anywhere, still taking our tables at restaurants and bars, and still running red lights, turning the wrong way down one way streets and nearly killing us in crosswalks, all while talking on your cell phones and trolling for parking spaces that – if they exist – are ours.
I’m starting to realize why God felt the need to wipe out New Orleans. Hint: it had nothing to do with the locals (watch out Disney!).
AND we were exceedingly nice to you. We did not rob, stab, beat, shoot or rape you. We did not kidnap your children for ransom (in many respects because we kinda felt bad enough for them – seriously, 12 hours in below-freezing weather? I mean, THAT’s kidnapping if not straight up child abuse. Jesus.), intentionally give you wrong directions, or lie to you about how miserable much of your experience was going to be.
And this is how you repay us; by STAYING for a few more days. If we weren’t so sleep deprived we’d probably devise a scheme to have Obama have to be re-inaugurated, too, get you back down there and then just light the Mall on fire. So, for both our sakes, go home please. It’s time. Go back to Applebees, and take your Starter jackets and your Big Ten sweatshirts with you. Let us have our city back. We’d threaten to descend upon yours and return the favor but, let’s face it, there’s no fucking way we’d ever spend ANY time there beyond the three-hour layover we’re forced to take on flights to Vegas.
Yours, Dick Whitman