It was a rainy night in October. Senator Barack Obama paced absently around the drawing room of his home, puffing on a cigarette. He looked uncharacteristically agitated — as though someone had just asked him when life begins. His wife Michelle sat looking equally distraught in a nearby chair, rocking back and forth.
The doorbell broke the silence. Barack extinguished his cigarette, collected himself and opened the door.
It was Reverend Jeremiah Wright.
“Good evening, Reverend. Thank you for coming on short notice.”
Wright entered the foyer. Michelle got up to greet him.
“Reverend,” she mustered.
“Evening, Michelle.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “So what seems to be the problem?”
A blood-curdling cry came from upstairs. It sounded half-human, half-animal. The cry faded away and Reverend Wright’s curious gaze drifted back to the despairing couple.
“It’s our daughter, Malia,” said Michelle, fighting to keep her composure. “We think she… might be possessed.”
“Possessed? You mean by–“
“Evil spirits, yes,” said Barack. “We want you to perform an exorcism.”
“Are you sure she’s possessed? What’s her behavior been like?”
“Oh, you know,” said Michelle. “Apart from crawling around on the ceiling and vomiting profusely, she’s also been using the most foul language I’ve ever heard from a nine year old. And I grew up in the South Side of Chicago.”
“Her behavior is completely erratic,” said Barack. “I haven’t seen anything like it since John McCain.”
“May I see her?” asked the Reverend.
They led Reverend Wright upstairs to Malia’s bedroom. The Reverend cautiously opened the door and the three of them entered. Malia lay on her bed, dressed in a nightgown covered in vomit. Her complexion was a sickly greenish hue. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks — like Manny Ramirez after a shower. Her face and legs were covered with lacerations and bruises. She was breathing heavily, wheezing and groaning with each breath. It was not unlike standing in Courtney Love’s hotel room.
“Hello, Malia,” said the Reverend gently. “Your parents tell me you haven’t been feeling yourself lately.”
Malia’s breathing suddenly stopped. She turned her head toward the Reverend and opened her eyes. They were glowing red.
“Fuck you, Wright!” she shouted. Her voice was unsettlingly coarse and masculine. “Shove it up your ass, you fucking hypocritical cocksucker!“
Reverend Wright turned to Barack and Michelle.
“Has Malia been watching Fox News?”
Barack shook his head. “We only let our daughters watch children’s programming. Like Spongebob Squarepants or Keith Olbermann.”
“But you see what we mean?” asked Michelle. “Why does our little girl say such horrible things?”
Wright looked pensive for a moment. “Very well. I’m a little rusty on exorcisms, but I’ll see what I can do.” He gently nudged the despondent couple out of the room and closed the door behind them.
In the hallway Barack held Michelle in his arms as the two of them waited… and prayed…
Four hours later, Reverend Jeremiah Wright emerged from the bedroom looking exhausted. His face was covered in perspiration and dried vomit. He lifted his head to speak.
“I did it,” he said. “It wasn’t easy, but… your daughter appears normal.”
Barack and Michelle sprung to their feet. They entered the bedroom and saw Malia lying in bed tucked beneath her covers, breathing contently.
“Malia?” said Michelle meekly. “Sweetie, are you okay?”
Malia’s eyes popped open. She sat straight up on the bed and looked at her mother.
“Naw, naw, naw!” she bellowed. “Not God BLESS America! God DAMN America!! That’s in the Bible!!!“
Her head began to spin around, vomiting staggering amounts of black bile like some kind of demonic lawn sprinkler.
“We bombed Hiroshima! We bombed Nagasaki!” Malia continued. The bed shook violently and toys flew around the room by an unseen force. “America’s chickens… are comin’ home… to roost!!“
Barack and Michelle quickly exited the room and shut the door. With their faces dripping with liquid foulness, they turned to look at Reverend Wright.
“Well? What do you think?” asked the Reverend.
“I think,” said Michelle. “That she’s finally talking some sense!”
“Yes, thank you so much, Reverend,” said Barack. “We can finally take her to cocktail parties without fear of embarrassment.”