January 27 - Inner Monologue of a Junior Member of the Obama Administration While Playing Basketball With the President

Holy freaking shit.
I am about to play basketball with the President of the United States.
This is huge. Don't panic, but this is huge: I am about to play pick-up hoops with the freaking President of the United Goddamn States of America!
Oh my God, he’s guarding me! Freaking Obama is guarding me. I’m probably going to score on the president!
OK, that came out kind of gay, but you know what I mean.
And don’t get me wrong, either. I’m not saying I’m all that, I’m just saying Obama’s defense is kind of weak. Whoah, better not say that one out loud! That’s the kind of comment that can throw us off our agenda, especially if talk radio hears about it. "People in his own administration say the president is weak on defense." Yeah, that wouldn’t be too cool, even though everyone would totally know I was talking about basketball.
Fucking talk radio.
Should I trash talk him? Better not, at least not at first. See how it goes. Let him or Rahm start it.
Or not. On the court it’s different, right? Out here he’s not the president. Out here we’re all ballers, right? Yeah, I should throw down with some trash talking. Nothing too harsh. Dude, your game needs a serious stimulus package. Yeah, that’d be OK, right? Maybe dude is too informal, though. Or maybe, Job creation? Sir, I think you need to concentrate on shot creation because that's some serious bricks you're throwing up there. Or what about, Health care overhaul? Dude, please. Why don't you focus on defense overhaul? No wait, I’ve got it! I block his shot, get all up in his face and be all, NO, YOU CAN’T! Dude, that would freaking rock! Maybe I could even call him bitch.
Probably not, though.
OK, he’s got the rock. He’s driving the lane. He’s going for a lay-up. Should I stuff him? Can I do that? Should I foul the hell out of him early on so he plays scared for the rest of the game?
No, you don’t want to spook him, especially with the State of the Union coming up this evening. Let him get his confidence up. Not that he doesn’t seem confident, but still.
He flubbed it. It’s bouncing around on the rim. Do I box out? Yeah. Hell yeah. He doesn’t want people who are just going to let him score and get all the rebounds. He’ll see right through that, he’s not stupid.
Dude, I just boxed out on the president.
I need an open pass, but there's nobody. Nobody but Axlerod. Look at him over there, waving his arms around like he’s freaking drowning or something. Yeah, I see you dude.
And I have to pass it to him. It’s obvious he’s the only one open and if I don’t, he’s going to be all lame about it. OK, OK. Here, dude. Enough with the waving. Just try not to cough it up like you always do.
Christ, look at him dribble. Protect the ball, man! Jesus! Is he always going to be a part of these games? I know he’s senior staff and all, but for God’s sake, look at him.
I shake loose of Obama. Hit me! Hit me, for Chrissake!
Axelrod takes a look at the hoop. Thinks about it.
Here comes the brick.
No, wait! Holy shit, he passed it for once! Out to that Secret Service guy.
OK, OK. He’s dribbling. No open looks. Wait, wait. No! No! He just passed it back to Axlerod. Fuck! He’s going to put up a brick just like he always does--when he doesn’t get it stuffed back in his face and his stupid ass mustache.
Oh wait, my bad. He passed it to me.
OK, this is it. Story to tell your grandchildren time. Taking the president to the hoop.
Head fake.
No bites.
Another head fake.
No bites.
Stutter step, spin move, up, off the glass, COUNT IT!
“Nice shot.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”