Lying in wait
It takes a big man to admit that he has a crush on the recently elected president of Argentina.
The man on the left is not Uncle Fester, but rather her presidential predecessor and morbidly obese husband, Nestor Kirchner. Considering this, the only logical conclusion to be had is that he must become my new mortal enemy. I'll eventually be required to duel him; that's what Argentineans do, right? Preferably, we'll fight on a windy rooftop after a prolonged chase scene in which he cowardly tries to escape his impending divorce and political bankruptcy. Give it up, Nestor. You can't have it both ways--you need to be either president and husband or ex-president and ex-husband. I don't know how she wound up marrying The Penguin, but it's irrelevant. We can forgive each other's past mistakes. And each other's two children. And each other's spotty Spanish.
I'm here now, Cristina.
We've been watching her inauguration speeches and keeping up with her decrees. I'm following her fashion tips. I spend my days walking around the Casa Rosada, the Argentine presidential home, waiting for my chance to serenade her with lyric poetry and old Def Jam VHS tapes. Waiting for us to have a common language. Waiting for Nestor. Waiting.
I know that one day, she'll see the light. It will become obvious to her. She may even voluntarily resign to pursue the affair, just like Edward VIII. I even created a pet name for her--President MILF. I'm sure it will catch on eventually. It may even chart a new course for female presidents throughout the world, breaking down many of the sexist barriers that prevent millions of MILFs from being accepted as heads of state. And, one can hope, it will directly result in the election of many more.
But until that day comes, and until that guard leaves his post at the front gate of her house, I will be there
Waiting.
The man on the left is not Uncle Fester, but rather her presidential predecessor and morbidly obese husband, Nestor Kirchner. Considering this, the only logical conclusion to be had is that he must become my new mortal enemy. I'll eventually be required to duel him; that's what Argentineans do, right? Preferably, we'll fight on a windy rooftop after a prolonged chase scene in which he cowardly tries to escape his impending divorce and political bankruptcy. Give it up, Nestor. You can't have it both ways--you need to be either president and husband or ex-president and ex-husband. I don't know how she wound up marrying The Penguin, but it's irrelevant. We can forgive each other's past mistakes. And each other's two children. And each other's spotty Spanish.
I'm here now, Cristina.
We've been watching her inauguration speeches and keeping up with her decrees. I'm following her fashion tips. I spend my days walking around the Casa Rosada, the Argentine presidential home, waiting for my chance to serenade her with lyric poetry and old Def Jam VHS tapes. Waiting for us to have a common language. Waiting for Nestor. Waiting.
I know that one day, she'll see the light. It will become obvious to her. She may even voluntarily resign to pursue the affair, just like Edward VIII. I even created a pet name for her--President MILF. I'm sure it will catch on eventually. It may even chart a new course for female presidents throughout the world, breaking down many of the sexist barriers that prevent millions of MILFs from being accepted as heads of state. And, one can hope, it will directly result in the election of many more.
But until that day comes, and until that guard leaves his post at the front gate of her house, I will be there
Waiting.