Obama’s Last State of the Union Address Continued

…Thank you, God bless you. God bless the United States of America. But wait (interrupting applause), before you go, there is one more thing I want to tell you.

Nearly eight years ago, when I was first elected president, I placed a secret letter into an envelope, sealed that envelope, and sewed the envelope into the lining of the suit jacket belonging to someone here tonight. That person is in fact wearing that self-same suit jacket this evening, unaware of the envelope. (Pause.) I see some of you fiddling with your suit jackets now. Do you feel the envelope? Everyone, stay seated. Sergeant-at-Arms Irving? Please ensure that no one leaves these chambers, not even for a long, female bathroom break.

I’ll get to the envelope later.

But first, what you heard tonight was the result of many hours of hard work by my speechwriters and myself to craft remarks so obvious, reasonable, and wholesome that members of a certain political party would squirm in your seats trying to look knowing and scornful without crossing the line into looking like treasonous, disrespectful dolts. I sympathize, I do. It must be hard. I sympathize, but I don’t get it.

Michelle and the girls have been telling me for years that I should just let my hair down in public and be how I am at home, but how can I? I mean, at home I’m frankly very quiet. I’m just watching what’s going on, what the girls are doing. In the private quarters I mostly just sit on the sofa and watch and smile and just dig how smart and gorgeous my family turned out. How that would translate as a presidential mode, I’m not sure.

Tonight is the eighth year I’ve come here trying to solve all my problems, the country’s problems, and my relationship with you, the Congress, in one giant, gorgeous speech that somehow never comes out quite right. I always want to leave here feeling like something’s been healed (or obliterated), but instead I always come away feeling like I scored some hits and suffered some injuries too and, I don’t know, it never feels great. It feels pretty crappy, actually. Tonight I’d really like to change that. (Military leaders look unamused. Paul Ryan checks his fitbit.)

OK, let me just be straight with you. I think some of you are evil twerps, I just do. I don’t think you are people of goodwill. But despite that, or alongside that, I do think you are people deserving of civil dialogue and the benefit of the doubt. I think you’re flawed and complicated and interesting and tragic, even, and I don’t understand — I think I’ll never understand — how you don’t afford me, and others, that same bare minimum allowance. Are we even playing the same game here? I feel like I’m playing chess, or maybe checkers, and you’re playing a game where you catch a stray cat, douse it in kerosene, light it on fire, travel with the ball, put a card in the discard pile, and tap the other team’s grandmother’s phone, all in one turn.

(Turns to look at Paul Ryan.) Paul, could you please open your suit jacket? (Ryan blinks and frowns, but grabs his lapels and opens his jacket up.)

And could you please rip the lining on lefthand side of you jacket? (Ryan hesitates, and then rips the fabric in one, quick movement. A white envelope topples out onto the table in front of him.)

And could you please pick up that envelope and open it and read the words written on the piece of paper inside? (Ryan tears the envelope open, tugs out a piece of folded paper, unfolds the paper. He reads it to himself and looks up at the President, hesitating.)

Go ahead, read it to the American people, Paul.

(Ryan says: “It says, ‘I told you so.’”)

Thank you, Paul. (President steps down from lectern and begins to make his way through the stunned, silent crowd.)

(Ryan says: “But I just bought this suit last week.”)