Michelle's Pyrrhic Victory Garden

It’s somewhat unsettling to see Michelle Obama ripping up the White House lawn to plant a garden, for I fear the place is going to start resembling one of those places that in Solomon's youth was called "Reform School."

Just writing those dreadful words sent a cold chill from the past coursing through my veins.

Once a year, every year we drove to my paternal grandparents’ place on the opposite end of the state. This being long before the government in its demented wisdom took to building interstate highways, we always drove ever so slowly through the myriad of wonders of our state. One of the highlights that never failed to impress was the grim, and I mean unbelievably grim, stone walls of the state penitentiary where the electric chair did its handiwork. We drove extra slowly past these stones.

After that, though, came the piece de resistance in my father's continuous commentary of demonic morality by which he terrified us and amused himself. We drove past the state reform school for boys, and there they’d be, male miscreants, out in the fields silently and sullenly cultivating the vast gardens that would feed them through the winter without heat or comfort.

Cabbages--ever requiring to be weeded by the shuffling teens who moved like robots--miles and miles of cabbages and angry eyes looking at cars that went by--escape ever on the mind.

This grim scene was never passed without humorless comments from my parents in the front seat--from here, it was only a small step to that horrible stone wall. The implication was also always made that my brother and I would end up there for—well, the infractions were left to our minds, the better to cause us dread.

So the scene from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is, I am pretty certain, a prelude to more and more grass being ripped up by the First Lady’s chilling commands. Until there is no grass left. Just “garden.”

And then “garden” planted in—you guessed it—cotton!

And the workers in the “garden” will be all white people, stupid liberal white people who will think it actually a privilege to be able to work for the Dark Lady and Laddie. And the overseers, er, excuse me, "attendants" will all be black.

Those that don't find her garden to be to their liking will find themselves studying grim gray stone walls--from the inside. And they shouldn't be surprised if the lights mysteriously and often flicker and fade.

And Miss Michelle Herself will spend many a precious moment, sitting up on the Truman Balcony, sipping venom and cackling, and always savoring watching the debasing spectacle of America humiliating itself in front of her, and for her, and because of her.

“Here’s a little reminder to all you whities. What we got here is REPARATIONS!” you’ll hear her screeching at odd hours.

Venezuelan tourists, specially transported here from that workers’ paradise to the south, will marvel at what a determined and implacable hatred can really accomplish, so long as you have a media that thinks just like her. And which thinks that they will never be ensnared by the rotten system they've created.

Yes, Miss Michelle be livin’ large in Tara (it’s only a matter of time till all the black servants in that big house are required to wear white face makeup an step lively, REAL lively when they approach Big Mama)!

And it starts with a simple, oh-so-sweet, little garden.
The Children's Garden.
The Garden Sinister.
You jes' wait.
Some "victory," eh?