It’s been said that Barack Obama has set a new standard for African-American achievement. Alliteration aside, Obama ran a campaign that promised change. And change he brought. Sure, the whole culmination of the ideals brought forth in the Civil Rights movement seems important, but can we look past race for a moment to perhaps an even more significant stride in equal rights? I’m talking, of course, about making fun of the mentally handicapped.

It’s about time someone took the Special Olympics down a peg. Too long has this “charitable organization” sat in its ivory tower in the clouds, far above the insults hurled from the peasants living in its shadow. But no more. The recently elected commander-in-chief took the public’s burden upon his broad, ebony shoulders and in a sense said, “No more will the tyrants of good taste and appropriateness hold sway over the populous. No more will American’s have to whisper unsavory jokes under their breath in the shadows of society and in e-mail forwards. America wants to scream its tasteless jokes in the streets. And now with hope and change and an arsenal of Helen Keller jokes, I say to you all, ‘Yes, we can.’”

"Yes we CAN laugh at the mongoloid we sit next to in art class!"

Was President Obama’s comment callous, insensitive, and somewhat mean-spirited? Absolutely. But more importantly, it was hilarious. This hilarity combined with Barack Obama’s natural charisma and charm met to become the perfect storm of acceptability. Everything went smoothly from the self-deprecating angle of the joke to the passive delivery. By making the joke so flawlessly, Obama has literally dropkicked the testicles of injustice, which then led to the dizzying nausea of awareness, and finally the bloodied vomit of reform was sprayed all over the nation.

Now, historically speaking, this is not the first time that an American President has attempted to joke his way into the history books. In 1942, with WWII’s end in sight, Harry S. Truman attempted to smooth over conflicts with Europe by making a joke at the expense of Mexico. This joke, which has been lost to the annals of history, was delivered awkwardly and reportedly “trailed off at the end.” Disaster ensued, leading to the infamous Zoot Suit Riots of Los Angeles, an event so disastrous that it would eventually resurface in 1997 under the guise of a Cherry Poppin’ Daddies album.

Just IMAGINE the tunes that will be made about the fallout from Obama's joke! He's WAY cooler than Truman!

Some of you may be asking what advantages could possibly come from an off-color remark? Just think about it. The term “retarded” has been thought of as politically incorrect for years, but when the foremost political leader of America makes a joke or reference previously thought “un-PC” on national television, it automatically becomes politically correct. In fact, speaking from a legal standpoint, not joking about the Special Olympics could easily be considered treason.

But what of the rest of the world? Won’t they view this as insensitive? We can only hope. We are currently involved in the War on Terror. I ask you, how can we fight terrorists abroad when we are too afraid to use certain words here at home? We can’t. It’s impossible. By showing the terrorists that no one is safe from our unabashed vocabulary, Barack Obama has effectively brought the hammer down on the terror makers. It is only a matter of time before the most dangerous factions shrivel up like a dick in ice water.

Do yourself a favor and don't picture it.

Dear readers, the Special Olympics remark of ’09 is just the tip of the iceberg. It is only a matter of time before the President Ba-rocks the shit out of some racial slurs, then it’s on to the fags. This is the beginning of complete and total equality in America (don’t screw this opportunity up, white people). The next time you get gunned down on Xbox Live, don’t be afraid to call your assassin a retard. Say it with pride. Say it with America in your heart and a huge, freedom-loving erection in your pants. I know I will.

Hi, my name is Jeff and I’d like to talk to you about something.  No, not diabetes, that’s Brimley’s domain.  I’ve been writing for The Last Gaffe for a few months now, contributing articles here and there in addition to my occasional articles over at Cracked.  I read the fine work of my fellow Gaffers (except for Malcolm, of course) and, when their articles are submitted, I Digg them (again, apart from Malcolm).  I mean, I Digg the shit out of them.

I think it’s important to give and receive feedback on articles.  Good or bad, at least then you know that you’ve really touched the two or three people who have stumbled across the words you’ve put to paper (figuratively of course, since paper is zooming toward obsolete status with each passing day, sort of like video tapes and Canadians).  That’s how a writer grows, by reading the praise heaped upon him or herself and completely ignoring any criticisms or insults.

Should I? Nah, too easy.

And one thing I’ve noticed since I began contributing to TLG is this: I never get any fucking comments on my articles.  Well, I did on one, but that was mostly Malcolm and some clown named Son Tran, who may or may not be a Cracked writer with a furry fetish who has it out for me.  Or has a thing for me, I forget which.  Either way, Son, I’m sorry but I’m not interested.

Meanwhile, these other jerk faces get comments all the time.  Michael tells you all about being the meat in a man sandwich at the YMCA, Erica gets ripped and then mocks your beloved geek film Star Whores (that’s what she watched, right?  I was drunk when I read it) and you’re hurling comments at them like they are stones, and they just stole your goat back in biblical times.  That’s what they did back then, right?  Doesn’t matter, I refuse to recognize history prior to 1973.  I mean really, if Journey wasn’t around to sing about it, it probably didn’t happen.  Fuck you, “dinosaurs.”

Settle down, Attention-Whorosaurus. You're just embarrassing yourself.

Now, I know that for the most part, internet comments are posted by halfwits and numbskulls, both of which are words I don’t use nearly enough.  But seriously, would it kill you halfwits and numbskulls to comment on my articles once in awhile?  I mean really.  What in the jelly bean hell is your problem?  Is this because I’m white?  Like, really, really white?  I mean, I’m almost translucent, I’m so white.  Is that it?

I give you people gold – gold – about such important hot button topics as Irish drunkenness, presidential elections (in movies, anyway) and Hayden Panetierre in a bikini.  That’s right, a barely legal teen.  In a bikini.  I point out the flaws of fictional characters.  I even provide pretty colorful photographs in the off chance that you can’t read so good.

And you’ve got nothing to say?  Nothing at all?  What are you, mute?  Well check it, Helen Keller, I don’t need you or your inspirational quest to conquer your disabilities and communicate to make me feel better about myself.  I can pat my own back just fine, thank you, though when I do so I risk pulling a muscle.  And that shit hurts.

What I'm saying is that I would kick the SHIT out of Helen Keller (were she living today.) No joke, that bitch had it too good for too long.

But it doesn’t hurt as much as the sting of seeing an article go un-commented on.  I quote the great philosopher and life coach Linda Ronstadt when I say, “it hurts so bad.”  And it is entirely your fault.  Sure, you’re probably telling yourself that I’m being contradictory, first saying I don’t need you or your approval, and then that I do.  Maybe it’s because I’m playing tricks.

Because I’m a ninja, and that’s what ninjas do.  Well, we also karate chop the shit out of people who act the fool, but we do so with great stealth and bitchin’ costumes.

I’m sorry, I’m just rambling now.  Is that what it is?  Is that why you don’t comment, because I ramble?  Are you saying I don’t get to the point quickly enough, and when I get there, my point isn’t so sharp?  Well what the hell is that supposed to mean, hm?

How else am I supposed to interpret it?  You’re the one who said it.  You’re just a cold, heartless bitch.

Just like this bitch. GOD, I hate her.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.  It’s just that sometimes, you frustrate me, anonymous internet commenter.  I don’t want it to be that way.  I want us to be close, like we were when we were kids.  Those were the days, weren’t they?  Remember Little League, and that time I took naked pictures of your mom to sell to our classmates of assorted sizes and ethnicities?  Good times.

Anyhoo, let’s get back on topic.  What can I do to get you to comment on my articles, friend?  Should I change my tactics and start being funny in my articles, rather than taking on all of these serious issues?  That’s it, isn’t it?  The stone cold sobering truth of my articles leaves you speechless, and depressed.  And then you hit the bottle.  Oh, how you enjoy your hooch.

Well, I’m glad we cleared that up.  Man, it was eating at me for awhile there, as though it mistook me for a delicious Cadbury cream egg.  Those things fucking rock.  Anyway, I’m glad we had this little talk.  I’m glad I was able to air out my feelings and frustrations, and let you know why you suck.  I think it’s healthy to be open and honest like that.

So, keep on keepin’ on, and you can all totally suck it.

XOXO,

Jeff

P.S. When I strike, you’ll never see it coming.  That’s the ninja way.  Plus, you’ll have your back turned and, most likely, you’ll be staring at your computer screen, totally not commenting on my articles.

P.P.S. The restraining order has not been lifted, Tran.  Knock it off.

But wait! I hear you saying: “How am I going to attain success, women, and job security when I have been effectively crippled by years of sedentary existence? I have spent so many hours re-posting memes on 4Chan that my muscles have atrophied to the point where I can no longer convey myself around my grandmother’s basement under my own power! It has been some days since she last came down to check on me or bring me food, and I fear that she has either moved without telling me or passed away. I sit here in front of my monitor, unable to act, unable to stand, unable to remove myself from the ever-growing pile of my own waste, idly wondering whether I shall die first from starvation or suffocation. How will your handy Primer help me?”

Well, to you I reply: “My Primer is only for the living, or more specifically, those living still able to stand upright under their immense girth. Please search for a handier Primer than this one.”

But to the rest of you I say: “Read on! You have nothing to lose but your chains, and maybe also a few pounds, fatty.”

Getting Your Head In The Game – Harnessing Your Powers of “First” Posting

I’m not going to sugar-coat it for you, brave denizen of the Web: it’s a tough job market out there. Friends backstabbing friends! Co-workers ripping off co-workers! Dogs eating dogs, and dogs don’t even have jobs! You’re going to need every scrap of every second just to get ahead.

Why, things are even tight in the Primer-writing business! You see, I had a friend in my old office. His name was Jimmy Chan, and he was an Asian. We worked together on many a Primer, and I thought that Jimmy Chan was my friend, but I thought wrong. Late one night, when Jimmy Chan and I were finishing up one particularly long Primer about fish or something, I felt a surge of brotherly affection for Jimmy Chan and decided to share something with him that I had never shared with anyone before.

“Jimmy Chan,” I said, “because I respect you, I want to show you a secret project of mine. It is almost complete, and first thing tomorrow I will be bringing it to our manager.”

“What is it, my friend?” asked Jimmy Chan, bowing or something.

I took a deep breath and showed him my laptop screen. “This, Jimmy Chan, is possibly the most important Primer ever written by mortal men.” I was quivering with excitement. “Primer-writers will speak my name in deep reverence, and powerful men will invite me eagerly into their ranks. Jimmy Chan, this… is the Primer for writing Primers!”

At this, Jimmy Chan’s eyes widened. I think I started to cry, I can’t remember, but I was so happy just to have revealed my magnum opus to another human being, after nights of torturous Priming. I went home in such a tizzy that I forgot my laptop at work, which was where Jimmy Chan put his devious plan into motion.

The next morning, I rushed to work early, not wanting to spare myself a single moment of my manager’s adoration. The sight that greeted me upon entering the office chilled my blood – Jimmy Chan, walking out of my manager’s office, holding my laptop. My manager was shaking hands with Jimmy Chan, as if to say “Good work, Jimmy Chan. Good work on the Primer that I have no doubt you created with your Asian hands. Good work, much better work than your lazy co-worker who has only just entered the office.”

Things get a little bit foggy after that. I remember rushing Jimmy Chan and knocking him down, and I suppose I may have struck him once or twice. I don’t remember the racial slurs the half-dozen witnesses claimed that I used, and I certainly don’t remember pointing out that Jimmy Chan had “huge, deceitful teeth.” I sort of blacked out around the point that witnesses claim I leapt up in search of a blunt object to “finish the job with.” Needless to say, due to Jimmy Chan’s treachery, that was the last Primer I wrote for that company.

How does all this relate to you and your surely-impeccable “First” posting skills? Well, to be honest, I got a little preoccupied with Jimmy Chan and forgot exactly what my point was. I suppose the mental alacrity requisite to attaining the first post on any online item that allows comments might give you an edge in outsmarting wily Asians, as I should have done in my anecdote. Or perhaps your keen senses of observation would have allowed you to deduce that Jimmy Chan had merely been holding on to my laptop for safekeeping, and was shaking hands with my manager because his Asian wife had just given birth to Jimmy Chan Junior.

Anyhow, I’m a little emotional right now, and I think I need a little bit of time alone to collect my thoughts on how best to continue this Primer. Check back tomorrow for the second installment!