Not an hour ago I stood in the voting booth where I selected from amongst five smooth stones, loaded my sling and swiftly, with a mighty twirl and fling, let the Daley machine’s creature have it right between his affectless eyes. He crumpled like an unstrung marionette — or should I say “as” a marionette; for closer examination of the twisted corpse with the springs and gears popping out of the fatal wound confirmed my suspicions. Obama had been a robot all along, and not a very convincing one at that.
But the job was not finished. The puppet was destroyed, yes, but what about the puppeteers? A horrible thought struck me and caused me to glance about warily: Was this the only android? How many other identical Obamachines lay dormant in crates secreted all over the country — all over the world — awaiting activation?
I dropped another smooth stone into my sling.