So while most people are worried about health care, the growing conflict in Afghanistan, and the continued recession, two zany guys are still thinking about the stupidity of Detroit's CEO taking private jets to the Capital to ask for billions of dollars.
Two guys with neck tats, a twenty, and a laptop set off on their Brammo electric scooters on a mission to deliver our President the answer to oil dependence, and perhaps our oil-related wars, on a silver-platter...or a couple of nifty electric scooters actually. They rode their 21st century vehicles that same route taken by the fat cats but instead of jet fuel they depended on a wickedly funny blog to supply couches to surf on and sockets to plug into en route.
Its kind of like Zen & The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance meets The Daily Show. A serious mission with a sense of humor and adventure. There's plenty of digression into the folks our boys meet along the way, dumb car facts, and sofa surfing trivia.
But in the end they want to deliver their scooters to the President at the White House. Only one problem: apparently he wasn't expecting company.
Ultimately the guys resort to ringing the White House door bell with some shocking results:
After what seemed like an eternity, a stone-faced Secret Service officer emerged from the booth and strode toward us. This was it. Prison. Waterboarding. Sensory deprivation. But when the officer extended his hand, it wasn't holding a taser; instead he gave us a phone number to call, and said someone would be right out. And moments later, to our disbelief, we were greeted outside the gates by an actual White House attache, a friendly young woman in a gray business suit who thanked us for our offer, and immediately returned us to the bureaucratic vortex by suggesting we call the White House Press Office and ask THEM if they could help us. Hey, at this point we were so relieved not to be in Guantanamo Bay that we actually felt blessed by the magnanimity of the gesture. Anyway, it all proved to be another dead end, but we're not beaten yet.
Our protagonists need your help. If you know Barack will you give him a call on the red phone and ask him to meet these poor, funny, tired gen-Xers at the gate? If you don't know Barack personally but still think the mission noble will you call or write the White House to ask our Pres to let the boys in? After all, we own the joint.