I peered into the ugly face of voter suppression

An Excerpt From The Obamanator

A Chronicle of My Adventures In The 2012 Campaign

Dear Mr. President,

I almost punched a Republican in the nose this morning. He was a repugnant motherfucker, sir, and I really wanted to deck him.

It all started when I gave Emelda Jamarron a ride to the polls. She’s an elderly woman from Cuba who moved to Sarasota, Florida, nine years ago. Today was her first chance to vote.

She doesn’t speak any English, and she doesn’t have a car. I speak pretty good Spanish, so the folks at the local Obama headquarters asked me to give her a lift.

I was honored to help.

I was wearing a Barack Obama T-shirt, sir, the original 2008 edition where you’re standing with your arms crossed and looking straight into the camera with a big smile on your face.

You looked incredibly handsome – much better looking than Bill Clinton, JFK or any of your other predecessors. (Even with your gray hair, sir, you still look better than those guys ever did.)

With a sense of great anticipation, Emelda and I arrived at the Robert Taylor Recreation Center, the polling place for Newtown, an African-American neighborhood on the north side of Sarasota.

She went inside to vote, and I waited outside.

That’s when I noticed a 350-pound Republican skulking around. He wore a scowl on his face and a tag around his neck that said “Poll Watcher.”

After about 15 minutes, Emelda emerged from the polling booth, looking triumphant. As we were turning to go, the goon accosted me.

“Were you helping her vote?” he snapped. “It’s against the law to help anyone vote if you’re within 100 feet of a polling place.”

“I wasn’t helping her vote. I just gave her a ride to the polls, and now I’m going to take her home.”

“You’d better learn the law,” he sneered. “I’m going to report you.”

I know I should have kept my cool, Mr. President, but I just couldn’t help myself. I let the bully have it.

“You’re not here to observe polling,” I shouted, as a crowd gathered to listen. “You’re here to suppress the vote. You’re here to intimidate minority voters. You’re here to deny people their democratic rights. You should be ashamed of yourself. You are a thug and a bully. You are a Republican goon.”

The man started speaking to Emelda in Spanish, warning her that he was going to get us in big trouble.

For some reason, he volunteered that he was from Uruguay. This came as no great surprise, sir, as many Nazi war criminals settled in that region after World War II.

He got right in my face, sir, close enough for his enormous gut to brush against my Get Out The Vote clipboard.

I know I should have kept my cool, sir. I know I let you down. But at least I didn’t smack him.

Just as I was getting angry enough to assault the Romney-loving douche bag, sir, a Democratic lawyer intervened. I took some deep breaths and told her what had happened. She wrote it all down and promised to investigate.

While the Uruguayan sputtered and fumed, Emelda and I went to pick up her daughter, who was also going to vote for the very first time.

It was a good day, sir. We looked into the ugly face of voter suppression, and we stared it down.

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