KING OBAMA’S NEW CLOTHES
There is a king that lives in a great country called America. This king is so exceedingly fond of fine new clothes that he spends vast sums of money on the finest clothes in all the lands. To him clothes meant more than anything else in the world. He took no interest in his army, nor did he care to go to the theatre, or to cruise through large cities in his limousine, unless it was to display his new clothes. He had different robes for every single hour of the day.
In the great city where he lived life was gay and strangers were always coming and going. Everyone knew about the King’s passion for clothes.
Now one fine day two swindlers named Holder and Petraeus, calling themselves Royal Designers, arrived. They declared that they could design the “coolest” cloth to make the most regal outfits – suits and robes that one could imagine, in the most beautiful colors and elaborate patterns. Not only was the material so wonderful, but the clothes made from it had the special power of being invisible to everyone who was stupid or not loyal, and who is unfit for his position!
“What a splendid idea!” thought King Obama, “If I had such a suit of clothes I could know at once which of my people are stupid and disloyal to my plans for taking over the world. Now I can surely be the most powerful man of all time, and my New World Order will happen right on time! After all, I’m black and I deserve it, and the people owe it to me, anyway.”
So King Obama gave the swindlers large sums of money and the two designers set up their looms and sewing machines in the White House, just down the hall from the Oval Office. They demanded the finest thread of the best silk, imported from France and exotic areas in Asia, and the finest gold which they would claim to weave into the material. So they pretended to work at their looms to produce cloth. But they put nothing on the looms. The frames stood empty. The silk and gold thread they stuffed into their bags. So they sat pretending to weave, and continued to work at the empty loom till late into the night. Night after night they went home with their money and their bags full of the finest silk and gold thread. Day after day they pretended to work. They worked so fast and furious that King Obama gave them occasional bonuses of gold, federal bonds, and insider trading secrets.
Some weeks passed by, and the King was eager to know how much of his new clothes had been completed, and would love to see for himself. As King Obama started to step out from behind his big, golden desk in the Oval Office, suddenly he had a thought. A very, very scary thought, and became somewhat uneasy. “Suppose,” he thought secretly, “suppose I am unable to see the clothes. That would mean I am either stupid or unfit for my throne – or BOTH! That cannot be,” he thought. But in my entire kingdom, no one is nearly as smart as I am. Well, all the same he decided to send for his faithful old assistant, Biden Silverhair, to go and see. “I will send him first to see how the clothes look. He is far from smart as everyone knows, but I will see what his reaction is, because he is stupid, but loyal to my throne.”
So faithful old Biden hobbled into the hall where the two designers sat beside the empty looms and sewing machines, pretending to work fast and furious, with all their might.
Biden opened his eyes wide. ‘Upon my life!’ he thought. ‘I see nothing at all, nothing.’ But he did not say so, lest everyone would really know how stupid he was.
The two swindlers begged him to come nearer and asked him how he liked their work. “Are not the colors exquisite, and see how intricate are the patterns,” they said. The poor old assistant stared and stared. Still he could see nothing, for there was nothing. But he did not dare to say he saw nothing. ‘Nobody must find out,’ thought he. ‘I must never confess that I could not see the stuff.’
“Well,” said one of the rascals, Holder. “You do not say whether it pleases you.”
“Oh, it is beautiful — most excellent, to be sure. Such a beautiful design, such exquisite colors, that I can’t even describe it! I shall tell the King how enchanted I am with the clothes.”
“We are very glad to hear that,” said the designers, as they weaved, and started to describe the colors and patterns in great detail. The old assistant listened very carefully so that he could repeat the description to the King. They also demanded more money and more gold thread, saying that they needed it to finish the clothes, the gold thread was the miracle that made the spell work. But, of course, they put all they were given into their bags and pockets and kept on working at their empty looms and sewing machines.
Soon after this the King sent another official, Janet, to see how the men were getting on and to ask whether the clothes would soon be ready. Exactly the same thing happened with her as with Biden. She stood and stared, but as there was nothing to be seen, she could see nothing.
“Is not the material beautiful?” Petraeus echoed his partners’ words, as he talked of the patterns and the exquisite colors. “Stupid I certainly am not,” said Janet. Then she mused silently, ‘So, perhaps I am unfit for my post. But nobody shall know that I could not see the material.’ Then she praised the work, and how fast and furious their work is coming along.
To the King, she said when she returned, “The clothes they are making for you are truly magnificent, and your hired tailors are truly something, Holder is working fast and furious for you, and Petraeus is digging his heels in, too. What an intelligent King you are, and how regal you will look in such wonderful, custom made things!” Janet knew she had better spread it on thick; there was no way she would risk her undeserved highly-paid, but imaginary position in the kingdom, or her wonderful medical plan she could not lose. There’d be no settling for Obamacare like the peasants!
Everybody in all the big cities had heard of the secret clothes and was talking about the splendid material. And now the King was curious to see the costly stuff for himself while it was still in production. Accompanied by a number of selected assistants, ministers, clerks, and congress themselves, among whom were the two poor assistants who had already been before; the King went to the sewing room. There they sat in front of the empty machines, weaving and sewing more diligently than ever, yet without a single thread to be seen.
“Is not the cloth magnificent?” said the two assistants. “See here, the splendid pattern, the glorious colors. The gold thread is the secret that creates the spell, you know. Also, each of the edges will be adorned with intricate stitches of the gold threading.” Each pointed to the empty machines. Each thought that the other could see the material.
“What can this mean?” said the King said to himself. “This is terrible. Am I so stupid? Am I not fit to be the King? This is disastrous,” he thought. At last he said aloud, “Oh, the cloth is perfectly wonderful. It has a splendid pattern and such charming colors.” And he nodded his approval and smiled appreciatively and stared at the empty machines. He would not, he could not, admit he saw nothing, when his two assistants had praised the material so highly. And all his people looked and looked at the empty machines. Not one of them saw anything there at all. Nevertheless, they all said, “Oh, the cloth is magnificent.” They advised King Obama to have some new clothes made from this splendid material to wear in the great procession the following day.
“Magnificent.” “Excellent.” “Exquisite,” went from mouth to mouth and everyone appeared pleased. Each of the swindlers was given a decoration to wear in his button-hole to display the title of “Designer Knight for King Obama.”
The rascals, Holder and Petraeus, sat up all that night and worked, burning more than sixteen candles, so that everyone could see how busy they were making the suit of clothes ready for the procession. Each of them had a great big pair of scissors and they cut in the air, pretending to cut the cloth with them, and sewed with needles without any thread.
There was great excitement in the palace and King Obama’s clothes were the talk of the town. At last the designers declared that the clothes were ready. Then the King, with the most distinguished gentlemen of his administration, came to the designers. Each of the swindlers lifted up an arm as if he were holding something. “Here are Your Majesty’s trousers,” said one. “This is Your Majesty’s mantle,” said the other. “The whole suit is as light as a spider’s web. Why, you might almost feel as if you had nothing on, but that is just the beauty of it. This is the latest trend in Paris as well, you know.”
“Magnificent,” cried the ministers, but they could see nothing at all. Indeed there was nothing to be seen.
“Now, King, if would graciously consent to take off your clothes,” said the designers, “we could fit on the new ones.” So the Emperor laid aside his clothes and the swindlers pretended to help him piece by piece into the new ones they were supposed to have made.
The King turned from side to side in front of the long glass as if admiring himself.
“How well they fit. How splendid Your Majesty’s robes look: What gorgeous colors!” they all said. “Oh King, live forever! The clothes match your eyes, and make them shine a little brighter!” cried Nancy, continuing to butter the King.
“The canopy which is to be held over Your Majesty in the procession is waiting,” announced Lord Clinton as she motioned for him. She was the King’s top aide.
“I am quite ready,” announced the King, and he looked at himself again in the mirror, turning from side to side as if carefully examining his handsome attire.
The courtiers who were to carry the train felt about on the ground pretending to lift it: they walked on solemnly pretending to be carrying it. Nothing would have persuaded them to admit they could not see the clothes, for fear they would be thought stupid or unfit for their posts, and lose their extravagant pay and stealthy medical plan.
And so the King set off under the high canopy, at the head of the great procession. It was a great success. All of the King’s men and all of the King’s people were standing by and at the windows cheered and cried, “Oh, how splendid are the King’s new clothes. What a magnificent train! How well the clothes fit!” No one dared to admit that he couldn’t see anything, for who would want it to be known that he was either stupid or unfit for his post?
None of the King’s clothes had ever met with such success.
But among the crowds a little child suddenly gasped out, “But he hasn’t got anything on.” And the people began to whisper to one another what the child had said. “He hasn’t got anything on.” “There’s a little child saying he hasn’t got anything on.” Till everyone was saying, “But he hasn’t got anything on.” The King himself had the uncomfortable feeling that what they were whispering was only too true. “But I will have to go through with the procession,” he said to himself, and held his head high as he pretended nothing was wrong.
So he drew himself up and walked boldly on holding his head higher than before, and the courtiers held on to the train that wasn’t there at all.
And the moral of the story is:
It doesn’t do justice for the people of your kingdom if you hire idiots to do work for you. Everyone is so busy busting their humps for their own little piece of the pie and their medical plan, that the entire country (eventually our world, as well!) suffers because no one will stand up and demand that our laws, which have always served our nation exceptionally well, are for everyone. EVERYONE. And so, to this day, everyone in America goes on pretending that our King is doing such a wonderful job, that they pretend not to notice that “America, The Beautiful” is crying, for her people will not be comforted.
This satire was adapted from a child’s fable, written by freelance blogger Rhonda J. Heim for purposes of entertainment and provocation of thought to bring honor back to America. CREDIT: The original story was written by the wonderful author Hans Christian Andersen (born on April 2, 1805 in Odense, Denmark). He was the son of a poor shoemaker and could hardly attend school. His father died when he was 11 years old. When Hans Anderson was the age of 14 he ran away to Copenhagen. In 1822 he went to the Latin school in Slagelse. He died in Copenhagen on August 4, 1875 in the age of 70 years.