Remember that time you were at throwing a party and you were dominating your eighth round of beer pong. You were fucking unstoppable. Bros were falling down into drunken heaps of vomit and shit all around you. You were God.
But then that weird, shady dude who “brought his own saki” came downstairs after he finished having a conversation about “Proust” (whatever the fuck that is) with your queer roommates. Nobody likes this dude, nobody invited him to the party, but he still thinks he’s so much better than everyone, and shits all over your parade.
You tell him to fuck off. Things get heated. Push comes to shove, and dude ends up knocking you back into your regulation pong table, breaking the fucking thing. You’re pissed, but before you get a chance to knock him on his ass, he bolts.
Ten years later, you’re pulling in 6 figs as a junior account exec at Goldman Sachs (sweet gig, bro) and you’re taking your fiancé to some fruity art exhibit at some museum called Momma or something. And there he is, working the coat check. After 10 fucking years, you fucking found that saki-sipping pussy. You tell yourself that it was a long time ago, but it doesn’t keep the rage from building in your guts. You might both be grown men, but you had to dip into your trust fund to get that pong table fixed. You feel your fists clench. He hands you your coat check ticket, and without saying a word, you lay him the fuck out.
Now imagine that happening on a national scale. Obama got it fucking done this week. Mad props.