My 100th Post! Century Mark: ATTAINED!

7 Oct

When I saw that this would be my 100th post, I was excited and a bit daunted. I really wanted to do something special for the 100th post, but I had no idea what. After a while I decided that first, no matter what I route I took with the entry, I’d start with a special thank you to my friend Jules Litke, who talked me into starting a blog in the first place. Although she once described the blog as “like an episode of the Simpsons–the end addressing an impossibly different subject than the beginning,” there was still an obvious support. Thanks, Jules.

I’d also like to thank Dr. JP Internet–inventor of the internet. Without you, none of this would possible, and so many 13 year old men would have retained their innocence so much longer.

In preparation for this stupendous occasion, Editor and I took a walk through some of our favorite blogs. At first, we were going to do a retrospective, but that felt so tired and a little cliche. We want to move forward, think forward, write forward. We want change. Who better to see about change than President Barack Obama? So, after many, many phone calls, e-mails, and background checks, the White House decided to let us come by for an interview.

Editor and I arrive by way of police escort to the White House. We pass through the iron gates. It isn’t until now that it really hits me–I’m at the White House. I mean, Mike Tyson has been here. I wonder if he’s hiding somewhere inside. At this moment of recognizing where I am, I cannot help but recognize the inverse–where I have been. I think back to my childhood, dressed as Spiderman, running around in the driveway with my sister, holding a large piece of paper that read “AUTOGRAPHS FROM THE SON OF SPIDERMAN!” I think back the sixth grade, kissing a girl for the first time when she wanted it too. I think back to high school, and all the time I spent at Whataburger with my friends. Then I think to just last week, when I woke up at noon, watched a movie that I hated because I couldn’t reach the remote, put on pants at four o clock in the afternoon, watched a three hours of The Hills, drank a couple of glasses of wine and fell asleep under my desk. I shiver.

We pull into to the guest entry area of the White House.

“Mr. Irion?” a security guard asks as he opens the door.

“This is he.” What? Why am I talking like that?

“Welcome to the White House,” the guard says.

I hold out my hand like I saw that girl on Princess Diaries do when she was being led from her car. The security guard merely stands and looks at my hand, and then to me.

“Welcome to the White House, sir.”

“Get out of the car, Kyle,” Editor says from behind me.

“Shut the FUCK up, Editor.” I turn so Editor can see me. “I’m serious. Do not ruin this for me.” He sits back a bit and I get out of the car. I approach the guard and lean in, speaking at just above a whisper. “On the way in, that guy looked really nervous. He was sweating bullets and looking around a lot. Then he showed me a gun and winked at me.”

“Please continue into the building, sir,” the guard said. “Welcome,” the guard says to Editor. Editor smiles and thanks the guard.

To calm my nerves, I had roughly six of seven shots from my flask on the drive in. As we approach the front door it seems as if they all hit at once. I enter the White House drunk as hell.

Our first meeting in front of local media.

Our first meeting in front of local media. He's apologizing for me profusely.

We’re immediately met by a White House Aide.

“Mr. Irion, right this way, please,” He says.

The White House is immaculate–perhaps one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. There are plush couches without any cat hair, beautiful vaulted ceilings and paneled walls, also without any cat hair. For a moment I consider trying to start a new White House tradition of signing the walls just inside the entrance, walking toward one of the panels with a red crayon in my hand (I carry crayons everywhere for just such an occasion) but reconsider this notion as a guard places himself (and a clearly visible taser) between the wall and I.

Editor and I pass through several hallways before reaching the President’s meeting area.

“Can you believe where we are?!” Editor asks.

“It’s pretty incredible. I’m glad you haven’t ruined this for me yet.” I put my hand on his shoulder and he gives me a slight smile and a knowing nod. “Let’s go rape this interview,” I say. His smile fades and it seems like he’s about to say something when I turn away and walk into the meeting area.

I put a suit on for a quick photo op. This one's for mom.

This one's for mom.

“All right. Just wait in here. President Obama will be with you in just a moment.” The aide turns and leaves. For a moment, Editor and I stand in the meeting room, still awestruck by the grandness of it all.

“You know how many famous dignitaries have sat in that chair?” Editor asks, referring to the chair across from the President’s.

“You know how many famous dictionaries have shat in that hair? Stop getting emotional, Editor. We have to stay focused for this. This is the biggest interview of our lives–well, your life at least. I still plan to interview God one day. After that, I want to interview the color red.”

“Kyle, you–” Editor starts, but just at this moment, the door at the north wall of the room opens and in steps President Barack Obama.

“Mr. Iron Kyle, it’s nice to finally meet you.” Obama extends his hand to me and I take it, shaking it as firmly as I can without making him think I’m trying to assert any form of dominance. I consider giving him the “wriggler” handshake, but decide against it since that sort of thing hasn’t been funny since the Truman administration. “And you must be the infamous ‘Editor,'” Barack says. “Hello.” The President motions for me to take a seat across from him. “Can I get you anything? Water?” He points to Editor and then to me. We both shake our heads no. “All right. Well then, let’s get started, shall we?”

“Shall we,” I say. Barack looks confused. “We shall–we shall,” I correct myself. I’m incredibly nervous. “So, Mr. Obama. You’re almost a year into your first term. How do you think things are going?”

I'm telling Barack about my dating history.

I'm telling Barack about my dating history.

Barack shifts in his seat. “Coming out with guns blazing,” he says, smiling wryly. “Well, as I expected, it hasn’t been easy, but to say that the past eight or nine months have been according to plan would be a,” he pauses, “would be grossly inaccurate.”

“Blazing out with guns coming,” I say. I fucked it up again. This time, however, I just plow through. “What has gone your way, in your opinion, and what hasn’t?”

“Well certainly I would like to have been further on this health care issue–that’s one thing I wish there was more progress in. I also would have been so, so proud to get the Olympics in Chicago.”

“More like Shit-taco,” I say. I hear Editor choke out the word “no!” under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Barack asks.

“Stupid Chicago couldn’t win the Olympics for you. I’m sorry, Mr. President.”

“That word you just used to describe Chicago, that’s highly inappropriate. Chicago is a beautiful city and I won’t see it disrespected.”

“Sorry. I’m really nervous. Cracking jokes is how I calm down–well, that and shot after shot of whiskey,” I say. Barack lightens a bit.

“A whiskey man? Would you like to have a glass? I have a great eighteen year vintage of Jameson’s. You like Jameson’s?”


“Well all right then. Tammy,” He gestures toward a woman standing behind the couch Editor is sitting on. “Would you please get us three tumblers and my bottle of Jameson’s?”

“Yes sir,” she says and goes with haste to retrieve the bottle and glasses.  While she is out getting the drinks, I decide to continue with some lighter questions.

“What’s the biggest perk of being president? I mean, not like ‘bestowing freedom to the world,’ or anything like that–although that is good, but what I’m talking about is like, presidential socks, or how instead of reading about a foreign reader’s stance you actually get to hear it straight from him or her.”

“Well,” Barack begins, holding his chin and smiling wryly,  “I do get a lot of free stuff.” We both chuckle a bit.

“Like missiles? I bet you get a shitload of free missiles,” I say, sitting at the edge of my seat looking for all the free missiles.

“No, actually, no missiles. I did get this bottle of whiskey we’re about to drink for free, though. In fact, when you leave, you can take it with you.”

“Barack, I’m so glad I voted for you.” Just then Tammy walks in with the whiskey. “Now let’s get royally shit faced.”

“No,” Barack said, “Let’s get Presidentially shit faced.” We raise our glasses and drink.

Thanks for reading.

Thanks for reading. Here's to 100 more.

One Response to “My 100th Post! Century Mark: ATTAINED!”


  1. My Favorite Posts of 2009 « Eat This, Internet. - December 31, 2009

    […] My 100th Post- I was actually really proud of myself for writing 100 posts. I bring back an old friend to my […]

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