While walking down Pennsylvania Avenue one fine afternoon on his way back to the White House to sign executive orders banning certain types of ammunition and edible school lunches, President Barack Obama is tragically hit by a Prius and dies.
“Welcome to Heaven, Mr. Obama“, St. Peter says. “Before you settle in, it seems there’s a problem. We seldom see an American head of state around these parts, you see, so we’re not sure what to do with you.”
“No problem, just let me in”, Obama tells St. Peter.
“If only it were that easy, Mr. Obama”, St. Peter clucks. “I’d like to, I really would — but I have orders from higher-ups. What we’re going to do is spend one day in Hell and one day in Heaven. Then you can choose where you spend your eternity.”
“Excuse me, St. Peter”, Obama says. “I’m pretty sure I would prefer Heaven, and I’m pretty sure I deserve Heaven. I was the first African-American president, and I saved America through hope, change, transparency …”
“What about Solyndra?”
“Look, we all make mistak…”
“Or how about Jonathan Gruber? Fast and Furious? Ordering border patrol agents to not enforce the law? Benghazi?”
“WE ALL MAKE MISTAKES, OKAY?!”
St. Peter sighed. “Well, regardless. I’m sorry, Mr. Obama, but rules are rules.” With that, he escorts Obama to the elevator to go down into the depths of Avernus.
The doors open and Obama finds himself in the middle of his favorite golf course. In the distance is a club and in front of it are Frank Marshall Davis, Lyndon Baines Johnson and many of his Chicago compatriots who had passed on.
Furthermore, on the lawn chairs outside of the club, there were signs hung on the back that said the seats were reserved for several of his closest friends and allies, including Susan Rice, Bill Ayers, and Rahm Emmanuel.
Everyone greets the deceased president and tells him what a wonderful job he did. Then, all of the Democrats begin talking about the great times they had getting rich off of those who voted for them.
The Devil comes by to meet Obama and orders lobster and caviar for everyone. They have a great time telling jokes and whiling away the hours drinking champagne. Finally, it’s time to go back up to Heaven.
St. Peter dropped Obama off in paradise, where he spends a good, if uneventful, 24 hours strumming harps and spinning tales with Ronald Reagan and Abraham Lincoln on clouds. It’s fun, but not nearly as much his time in Hell.
When St. Peter comes back, he tells the president, “Well, there you have it. 24 hours in Hell, and 24 hours in Heaven. What’ll it be?”
“I know this sounds crazy,” Obama tells St. Peter. “However, it seems like Hell is better. I think I’ll go there.”
“As you wish,” St. Peter says. He sends him down on the elevator, and suddenly, he finds himself in the middle of a barren, scorched desert, covered in detritus and human waste. He sees everyone he was laughing with yesterday, dressed in rags and picking up trash in vain.
The Devil comes over to Obama and hands him a bag. “Get working, ye fool!” Satan says.
“I … I don’t get it,” Obama stammers. “Yesterday we were golfing and having a great time. What happened?”
The Devil lowers his head and clucks. “Silly Obama. You of all people should understand. Yesterday we were campaigning. Today, you voted for us!”