Reporter: Many on the right have made it a point to go as far as to accuse you out right of being a narcissist. Would you care to respond? Sir? Sir?

Barack (stares off vacantly)

Barack’s inner voice: When you get right down to it, my story is an inspirational one. Given my origins, it’s surprising I’m able to function in society at all. I was created rather than born through a combination of genetic modification and fetal surgery. I don’t think even my creators really knew what they were intending to make or what they eventually created. At least they weren’t able to provide me any satisfactory answers when I quizzed them about it later in their underground Kenyan laboratories. Of course, the fact that they no longer possessed their tongues kept their answers rather on the unintelligible side. I guess I didn’t really think that approach through all the way. Or, deep down, I didn’t really care about their answers. I know who I am, so what do their dead intentions matter? I’m faster, stronger, smarter, hipper. I’m the only human being in existence who can really multitask, really and truly focus on more than one thing at a time. When one tampers with the brain, however, the law of unintended consequences inevitably produces consequences of the unintended variety. Hence, the name of the law. The unintended consequence number one: I have no morals. No matter how many times I may try and make the utterance, I can’t feel your pain any more than that failed prototype Bill Clinton could.

Such lack of empathy and morals, however, made it pretty easy for me to decide which booths at the Jobs Fair to frequent: hit man or politician. At first, hit man seemed sexier. The universe is filled with multicolored blood balloons that make all sorts of interesting sounds when you squeeze them properly, eventually bursting to reveal whether you correctly guessed the color of their blood. It was fun while it lasted, but I just kept feeling there must be some way I could wreak greater destruction. What kind of legacy am I leaving myself? Will history even remember me? A couple thousand deaths in the universe would be hardly noticeable. I needed to ramp those numbers up to feed the other unintended consequence: textbook narcissism. I needed to be worshipped. I needed to be remembered. So I turned to occupation two.

Politics was easy for me, it turned out. Being able to lie out of both sides of my mouth at the same time gave me an overwhelming advantage. And it turns out it’s true what they say. The pen is mightier than the sword.  Did I mention I can wield two pens at once? With one hand, I can approve the new and onerous pharmaceutical regulations that will add years to the timeline to approve new drugs and treatment. Millions will suffer and languish and die waiting for FDA approvals. With the other hand, I can ban the production of GMO foods, sentencing millions, especially children, to slow death by starvation. Yes, given that I am a genetically modified organism myself, I am aware of the irony. Maybe my lizard brain instinctively feels that eating GMO foods is cannibalism, but I doubt it. Of course, I can also cause dreadful carnage by not wielding the pens.  By doing nothing, I can create a global power vacuum ready to be filled by all sorts of nasties.  I can ignore Boko Haram and ISIS until they get really hard to unseat.  Wielded or not, pens are dangerous in my two hands.

“Joe,” I said. “Did you know that Allah is racist because he created sickle cell anemia?”

Joe is my artificial intelligence. I’ve been lying to him for years. I thought by feeding him sundry false and contradictory information, like ‘if you like your healthcare plan, you can keep your healthcare plan’ or ‘the economy is a zero-sum game’ or blaming everything on racism, it would help to make him more intelligent as he had to work out these little dilemmas on his own. He’s a blithering idiot. I sure guessed wrong on that one. I didn’t make the American people any smarter either when I subjected them to the same experiment.  They voted for me twice, after all.

“What do you make of that, Joe?” I asked.

Joe just shivered, no longer even trying to remove his feet from his mouth.  Joe gave up answering me long ago.

Reporter: Sir? What do you make of that sir?

Barack: I refuse to even get down into that mud with them.