Yes, those tardy kindergartners from Virginia were turned away from the White House gates - the gates to the People's House, the Locus (locust?) of all Hope in the Universe, the Seat of The New Democracy - in order to acommodate Mr. Obama's lunch with the Pittsburgh Steelers, in Washington for some reason no one recalls. They are of course just a bunch of cry babies; just a large group of impressionable little Obamots, FruitLooped up on the national hysteria that is the Obama administration. Thought they would come to Washington and just barge into the Presidential Palace like Kelly's Heroes and steal the Gold. A glorious day of touching every possible antique surface and bulletproof window in that house that looks sort of like Graceland where Mom and that guy "Dad" keep talking about you like they took you home from there somehow after they snuck into a bathroom with gold toilet fixtures. They have been taught a valuable lesson in not wasting the Great One's precious time working on behalf of the people in the country who do manage to show up on time to the welfare offices, methodone clinics, and tasting bins at Whole Foods at lunch time. Their self-esteem paved over by some 23 year old White House scheduler, they will return home to their cabins in the woods where they live with their Mom who is also their cousin and they will sit under the chicken coop or on the stoop of their double wide cleaning their Airsoft semi-automatics and reciting phrases from the Book of Job while picking dog excrement from their Payless Sketcher knockoffs and naming the bits after the foreigners who clogged the Beltway and made them late for their minute under the bio-luminescence that is The One. What rubes. What little tiny rubettes and rubins. Shame is their middle name. Shane and Wayne, too, probably.
They and their "parents" will spend the better part of Memorial Day Weekend imagining how Mr. Magnifico could have bent the rules for them, particularly since they had traveled what in their tiny little provincial minds was at least as far as Uncle Cletus walked with his shine after his old Ford 150 cracked an axle up on Hollow Rd. near the old lynching tree. Imagine, they'll slur under the hot Virginia sun, if Mr. Presidente's people had said to the group, you know what, you might be late because you're slow, but since you traveled as far outside your town as you ever will, we have a big surprise for you, the future, - you're going to have hot dogs and macaroni and cheese not only with the man who has single handedly saved our Great Ongoing Experiment, but also with the Pittsburgh Steelers. Imagine if the President had put those two groups together. Imagine the fawning press coverage and the most bestest feelingest story ever, created by the only man capable of salvaging our hope for mankind and daily personal justice. Imagine The Magic Man forcing 6 foot 7 football hero millionaires onto his personal basketball court outside the Oval Office to shoot hoops against tiny little kids. National security debate with Darth Cheney? Puhleese. Cheney can't dunk.
Oh, well, maybe next year.