Why President Obama's Final 4th of July White House BBQ Will Be The Blackest Thing That Ever Happened

Ron Sachs/Pool/Getty Images
Ron Sachs/Pool/Getty Images

It's been well-established that President Obama discarded the last one of his fucks many moons ago; letting it go the same way Kappas forsake dignity at coed kickball games. We don't know exactly where he left that last fuck, but my guess would be in a bathroom sink in Ben's Chili Bowl on U Street, which is where fucks often go to perish.


Anyway, we're now left with a preeminently fuck denuded Black President. Which matters because when fuck fleeced Black people 1) happen to still be employed and 2) have a predetermined expiration date on said employment, all the Blackness that needed to be suppressed to keep said job has a way of bubbling up. Like a Black-ass, fuck scrapped volcano. And it matters even more today, the day of the Obama family's final Fourth of July at the White House. Which will undoubtedly be the Blackest thing the White House lawn has ever seen. We already know both Kendrick Lamar and Janelle Monae were invited to perform, and you do not invite both Kendrick Lamar and Janelle Monae to perform somewhere in 2016 unless you expect that somewhere to be charted in the Guinness Book of Blackness. So the only question that remains is exactly how Black will this BBQ be? Will it be acceptably, but not transcendently Black? (Like Jason Derulo.) Or will it be so Black that it even makes other Black people a little uncomfortable? (Like Kool-Aid at a wedding.)

In order to answer this question, a few more questions need to be asked and answered. (Ht to Errin Whack, who prompted this post after pointing out this performance in our Facebook messenger conversation yesterday about said White House BBQ)

1. Will President Obama don his usual "Guy At The YMCA You Don't Want To Pick On Your Team But Have To Because He's Your Boss And You're Dating His Daughter" pick-up basketball outfit (white shirt tucked into blue joggers; blue joggers tucked into Under Armour Curry 2 Lows), or will he go full middle-aged Black uncle (either a white linen shorts set with Stacy Adams Cognac colored Belmar Sandals or white tube socks, flip-flops, jean shorts, and a Hanes ComfortBlend v-neck undershirt)?

2. Who will be the White guy holding his own at the Spades table? (Probably Joe Biden. Actually, definitely Joe Biden.) And who will be the waaaaaay too awkward White guy who just hasn't been around this much Blackness before and doesn't know how to handle himself? (My guess? Paul Ryan.)

3. Is Jesse Williams invited? If so, who will make his plate? (This is a trick question. Because Jesse Williams and his wife definitely make plates for each other.)

4. Who's the official potato salad officiant? Is it Grandma Robinson? (Probably.) Does Michelle handle these duties herself? (Maybe.) Or is this the year they finally allow Malia to experiment with some recipe she learned in homeroom at Sidwell Friends, since its her birthday? (No.)


5. Will every attendee get a red cup at the door, and will they have to write their names on said red cups with dry erase markers? (If so, I can totally see Oprah being asked to write her name on a cup, smiling, reaching in her purse, pulling out her own red cup with a diamond-crusted "I'm Oprah, Bitches" emblazoned on it, and walking away.)

6. Will Sasha bring a date, and will the President have a jovial "conversation" with said date while two of his scariest secret service agents hover around, like hawks ready to pounce on a Jordan-rocking earthworm?


7. Does Valerie Jarrett lead the Wobble, or does she use this time to grab another bottle of Jamaican Me Happy Seagram's Escapes?

8. Did Kanye's and Kim's invites get, um, lost in the mail again, like what happened last year? (And the year before. And the year before that.)


9. When Kendrick performs "Alright", will Hillary surprise (and piss off) everyone by knowing — and rapping along with — all the lyrics?

10. When will the fireworks start before the meat is actually ready?

Damon Young is the editor-in-chief of VSB, a contributing opinion writer for The New York Times, and the author of What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Blacker (Ecco/HarperCollins)



I'm in D.C from Texas for the first time and I can honestly say I feel sorry for y'all. There is absolutely no room for growth or privacy, every thing is so close together. And where is a real grocery store at? Where can I buy some underwear at? Why is the food so dang expensive here? Why are the streets so narrow? Why are the houses and stores so close together? It feels like an island that ran out of room and everybody just on top of each other trying to fit. I got to many kids for this.