Babs Beat Me To This... But It IS To Laugh...

... Our Sock-Puppet In Chief, President Obama, has left for his G20 meeting. His entourage includes six doctors - just in case - a whole team of chefs, because, you know, foreign food, and all that; four writers, a "special friend" to shoot hoops with Obama - presumably bringing a basketball kit with them too - the usual overblown security apparatus, and oh, yeah, FOURTEEN TELEPROMPTERS.

Fourteen. I realize the guy can't talk without a hand stuffed up his ass so the fingers make his mouth move, but Jesus Christ, fourteen?

I mean, are you THAT incapacitated?

I realize you are so fragile that you might implode at any moment from your own blazing awesomeness and form some kind of ambulatory cold-fusion experiment, and thus might require six doctors.

I can understand not wanting Montezuma's Revenge mid-boring economic summit session, so the chefs, yeah.

Who likes to shoot hoops alone? Besides, if you didn't take a b-ball buddy, people might stop thinking you're "black enough," and you might lose your street cred, yo, so that's chillin'.

Security guys go without saying; after all, you are the Archon of Majestyrifficness, and all; you wouldn't want those dirty haters to do anything bad - or, like, let poor people touch the hem of your garment.

Four speechwriters, again goes without saying; one might not work fast enough, and you need to be able to speechify on short notice.

But FUCKING FOURTEEN TELEPROMPTERS?

I would be mad, except I am laughing so hard I have a side stitch.