Although Obama's inauguration speech was co-written by the 27-year-old Jon Favreau, a number of speechwriters were reportedly under consideration for the task.
An envelope with two speeches, apparently rejected, was found on the lectern by an observant cleaner after Obama had finished speaking. They are reproduced in their entirety below.
REJECTED SPEECH #1:
'A Happy Day for Rapacious American Imperialist Dogs'
By John Pilger, author of 'Napalm America!'
Welcome, Americans, and thank you for taking time off from your sweatshop-exploiting purchasing frenzies to attend today.
I am being sarcastic, of course: I do not wish to thank any of you. This is because you have not participated in the democratic process.
Last November, you voted for, and "elected" [remember air quote gesture here] one candidate only: the dollar. None of you participated in anything resembling a democratic process. Voting, for you appalling bottom-feeding scum, is simply a process of electing your favourite mass murderer. Every ballot cast was like a dagger in the heart of someone from South-East Asia that you don't care about, and who probably made your shoes.
You all disgust me, but worse - you profoundly scare me. A goose-stepping cavalcade of heavily tranquilised matrix-monkeys would show more independence of thought than you violent, somnambulistic, bloodthirsty goons.
I stand before you as the perfect Manchurian Candidate. I will dedicate myself to achieving your depraved, violent goals - shovelling cash into the gaping maws of murderous client states.
The slogan for my presidency should have been 'Yes, I can' - as you have no wills of your own. And do you think electing my Doppleganger would have made any difference whatsoever, you Imperialist pawns?
So, repeat after me, automatons.
Overthrowing democratically elected governments? [Crowd will respond: 'Yes, you can.' Pause for laugh here.]
Cutting swathes of destruction through the ranks of our "enemies"? [again, remember menacing scare quotes here. Crowd will respond: Yes, you can.]
Using the blood of innocents as a delicious breakfast condiment and licking your lips afterwards? [Crowd will respond: Yes, you can.]
Thank you, rabble. You disgust me.
*
REJECTED SPEECH #2: 'Stop Voting for Nazis, you Pussies!'
By Daniel Pipes, author of 'Can't We Just Move the Arabs to Syria or Someplace?: Notes Towards a Solution to the Middle Eastern Conflict'.
Thank you, fellow Americans, for electing a closeted Islamo-Fascist to the White House. A 'negotiator'. [sneer here].
As everyone knows, negotiators love the Nazis. Underneath my stars and stripes lapel pin is a swastika - but you were all too appallingly stupid to notice. Blinded by your lazy liberal love of hummus and falafels.
Well, I love a falafel as much as the next guy - but you can't run foreign policy on the principles of a delicious deep-fried vegetarian chickpea-based snack.
The fact is, residents of the greatest country that the universe has ever known, you've been sold down the river by a bunch of liberals. Again. Idiots. All that stuff about 'love' for other countries - is that what you were expecting today? There are no other countries - only enemies. And most of these enemies speak other languages. Funny languages that don't make sense. And you should never trust someone who speaks funny. Have you people learned nothing from Liberace?
To my solutions. Our defence budget is far too small. Next year, every child will get a free handgun, their parents a free F-16. For America's strength cannot be summed up in its people, or its ideals, or its diversity. Our strength is in our military, eggheads. You know, in strong stuff. Made of steel. (I honestly can't believe I have to explain this.)
For those who think 'the pen is mightier than the sword', or some other defeatist crap: watch this. [Take bic cystal ballpoint pen and machete out of briefcase here; pulverise former with latter.] Bullshit!
We have been losing wars because we are weak. Korea? Not enough guns. Vietnam? Not enough choppers. Iraq I? Not enough remote controlled missiles. Iraq II? Not enough Hummers.
It's time to get real, America, so we can win this thing. [Spit in disgust here.]
See ya.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Bring me your tired, your huddled....
And now for another excerpt from the collection of odd accidents that was my childhood.
My elder brother was having a Barbecue at his place - an event that I, a devoted and practicing carnivore at the time, was understandably excited about. This time, however, I was at - there's no easy way to put this - cricket practice (a story for another post) - and I wasn't able to get to his place until everyone else had already arrived.
'Tim!' they all said, with that warm tone of welcome that adults use on children, and which children inevitably love (even if they pretend they don't).
'I just have to get changed, and I'll be right out', I said, greatly looking forward to the awaiting succulent hunks of charred meat.
I went into my brother's room (I had, with unusual foresight, brought a change of clothing for the occasion). Halfway through changing, I looked in the corner of the room and saw... a mysterious black bag. Can you, in your heart of hearts, blame me for opening it?
The bag contained a big, red, heavy bowling ball. Most children, on finding such an object, might think: 'wouldn't it be fun to roll this across the floor for a bit?'
Not I. Instead, I thought: 'wouldn't it be fun, and even a little flattering, to pose with the bowling ball in front of the mirror?' (I had a rather strange body image at the time, I think.)
So, I gingerly took the ball from the bag, and slowly walked towards the smoked full-length mirror, my posture resembling someone who had just gotten a gigantic arm made of lead unexpectedly riveted to their right side.
It looked pretty cool, I must say. With my index and middle fingers lodged in the holes, I preened awhile and imagined myself as the junior 10-pin champion of the universe.
Next, I truly went for the epic. Imagining myself as a perfect (and non-hermaphroditic) hybrid of Michaelangelo's David and the Statue of Liberty, I slowly extended my right arm above my head, and held it aloft with ball attached.
I should stress at this point that my brother used a 16-pound ball. 16 pounds is around 7 kilograms - approximately the mass of an adult human head.
Triumphant, reveling in my own titanic strength, I looked proudly at my straining, wiry, right bicep-tricep combo, capped with the magificent red sphere. But I let my marble/copper sculpted daydream run away with me, lost concentration for a small interval, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, I noticed that the ball was forcing my ball-gripping fingers into a direction that they probably weren't supposed to go. Without support, the bowling ball surrendered custody to its old master - gravity.
Or, to put it another way, I dropped the bowling ball onto my face. Which is not quite as much fun as it sounds.
Regaining consciousness on the floor in a pool of my own blood, I opened my eyes to a closeup view of the blood-covered sphere and thought: isn't that funny: my blood's exactly the same colour as the ball!
Just switch to everyone else's perspective for a second: quiet boy goes into room to change out of his gym gear. Emerges with mild concussion, smashed lips, and bloodied face.
I couldn't talk for several hours, which did make explaining rather difficult.
My elder brother was having a Barbecue at his place - an event that I, a devoted and practicing carnivore at the time, was understandably excited about. This time, however, I was at - there's no easy way to put this - cricket practice (a story for another post) - and I wasn't able to get to his place until everyone else had already arrived.
'Tim!' they all said, with that warm tone of welcome that adults use on children, and which children inevitably love (even if they pretend they don't).
'I just have to get changed, and I'll be right out', I said, greatly looking forward to the awaiting succulent hunks of charred meat.
I went into my brother's room (I had, with unusual foresight, brought a change of clothing for the occasion). Halfway through changing, I looked in the corner of the room and saw... a mysterious black bag. Can you, in your heart of hearts, blame me for opening it?
The bag contained a big, red, heavy bowling ball. Most children, on finding such an object, might think: 'wouldn't it be fun to roll this across the floor for a bit?'
Not I. Instead, I thought: 'wouldn't it be fun, and even a little flattering, to pose with the bowling ball in front of the mirror?' (I had a rather strange body image at the time, I think.)
So, I gingerly took the ball from the bag, and slowly walked towards the smoked full-length mirror, my posture resembling someone who had just gotten a gigantic arm made of lead unexpectedly riveted to their right side.
It looked pretty cool, I must say. With my index and middle fingers lodged in the holes, I preened awhile and imagined myself as the junior 10-pin champion of the universe.
Next, I truly went for the epic. Imagining myself as a perfect (and non-hermaphroditic) hybrid of Michaelangelo's David and the Statue of Liberty, I slowly extended my right arm above my head, and held it aloft with ball attached.
I should stress at this point that my brother used a 16-pound ball. 16 pounds is around 7 kilograms - approximately the mass of an adult human head.
Triumphant, reveling in my own titanic strength, I looked proudly at my straining, wiry, right bicep-tricep combo, capped with the magificent red sphere. But I let my marble/copper sculpted daydream run away with me, lost concentration for a small interval, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, I noticed that the ball was forcing my ball-gripping fingers into a direction that they probably weren't supposed to go. Without support, the bowling ball surrendered custody to its old master - gravity.
Or, to put it another way, I dropped the bowling ball onto my face. Which is not quite as much fun as it sounds.
Regaining consciousness on the floor in a pool of my own blood, I opened my eyes to a closeup view of the blood-covered sphere and thought: isn't that funny: my blood's exactly the same colour as the ball!
Just switch to everyone else's perspective for a second: quiet boy goes into room to change out of his gym gear. Emerges with mild concussion, smashed lips, and bloodied face.
I couldn't talk for several hours, which did make explaining rather difficult.
Friday, January 2, 2009
The Saint
The Obama photoshoot in the GoodWeekend a few weeks back was a little bit concerning, I thought. It was a great set - I spent about 15 minutes swooning over it - and it reinforced my crush, as it probably did for other readers.
But one photo stuck out: it showed Obama sitting with his crossed feet resting on a table. The caption described the holes in the bottom of his shoes, which had been made by all the walking that he had been doing during the campaign. It was the hardship that he'd been through that we were encouraged to see. The worn-out shoes became a shorthand for the man himself.
A similar thing happened with the 'news' that Obama is going to purchase a tuxedo for his inauguration. He only has one beaten-up one, apparently, which he purchased years ago. This is appealing, of course, but it's also fairly irrelevant.
Looking at the photos, I found it very hard to slough off the sense of awe that I felt, and feel, towards him. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that a large section of the population - me included - is 'in love' with him, insofar as one can fall in love with a stranger. This is a helpful attitude to have when you're supporting a campaign, but perhaps not so helpful when you're dealing with a sitting president.
It's hardly Obama's fault that he is, well, not exactly aesthetically or charismatically deficient. However, I think it will be a challenge for the world to judge his presidency in a disinterested manner. The Republican Party's 'Obama = Celebrity' ad worked, in part, because there was some truth in it.
Of course, the fact that it was nasty, paranoid & racist gave it a little help, too. God bless the GOP!
But one photo stuck out: it showed Obama sitting with his crossed feet resting on a table. The caption described the holes in the bottom of his shoes, which had been made by all the walking that he had been doing during the campaign. It was the hardship that he'd been through that we were encouraged to see. The worn-out shoes became a shorthand for the man himself.
A similar thing happened with the 'news' that Obama is going to purchase a tuxedo for his inauguration. He only has one beaten-up one, apparently, which he purchased years ago. This is appealing, of course, but it's also fairly irrelevant.
Looking at the photos, I found it very hard to slough off the sense of awe that I felt, and feel, towards him. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that a large section of the population - me included - is 'in love' with him, insofar as one can fall in love with a stranger. This is a helpful attitude to have when you're supporting a campaign, but perhaps not so helpful when you're dealing with a sitting president.
It's hardly Obama's fault that he is, well, not exactly aesthetically or charismatically deficient. However, I think it will be a challenge for the world to judge his presidency in a disinterested manner. The Republican Party's 'Obama = Celebrity' ad worked, in part, because there was some truth in it.
Of course, the fact that it was nasty, paranoid & racist gave it a little help, too. God bless the GOP!
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