Editor's Note: Last week, we held a teleconference with two friends from home on the subject of the social tone of the 2008 presidential election. While Val and Kevin could agree that both major candidates had a marked interest in courting America's ailing working families, their common ground ended there. What followed was a monumental spiral into juvenility; in the flurry of name-calling we remember hearing the epithets "plutocrat," "demagogue," "pedantic Ivy League cocksucker," "pretty-boy SoCal ass-surfer," and "monster douche" used liberally. No fewer than four birthday invitations were withdrawn. We sensed, however, that our buddies probably had well-reasoned arguments waiting in the wings, and that they had simply been unable to articulate them in the heat of the moment. We suggested that Val and Kevin compose opposing editorials addressing the question of the presidential candidates and Middle America. What follows is the result.

Barack Obama and Kitten America: A Match Made in Heaven

A really rather important essay co-authored by an anonymous aide to Barack Obama's 2004 senatorial campaign and a postdoctoral student at the University of Chicago named Derek Sullivan (or something) offers this profound anecdote from the candidate's childhood in Honolulu:

Young Barry strode along Ala Moana Beach one evening in 1972, pondering the world's injustices (as he was wont to do) and gazing into the rising surf. A storm was rolling in; the sky was growing dark and tall breakers were pounding the sand. Young Barry pondered the striking scene and immediately recognized it as a metaphor for a country still reeling from a decade of tumult and social upheaval...[and] a disastrous war overseas.

The bubbling waters swelled and washed over Young Barry's sandal-clad feet. Knowing that it was nearing dinner-time, he lifted his arms in a moment of silent exaltation, and then began making his way back to the road. But something caught his attention.

Young Barry rushed back to the sand, where a small crate sat precariously, soon to be swept into the waves. As he approached the curious object, he noticed a strange, clamorous noise emanating from the box. Prying open the lid with his surprisingly powerful arms, Young Barry's suspicions were confirmed: the box contained a litter of newborn kittens.

Young Barry removed his shirt and placed it atop the mewing, frightened litter to shield them from the elements. He then carried the crate home in the violent storm...[where upon his arrival] he found that the box had fallen completely silent: the kittens were fast asleep.

Over the coming weeks, Young Barry nursed the litter by hand, raising them as his own. (Only two are known to have died; one succumbed to a necrotizing infection of the eye socket, while another suffocated on the somewhat lengthy walk between Ala Moana Beach and the Dunham residence.) When they had grown strong enough, Young Barry carefully selected a home for each and every one of them. Two of the kittens moved to the Mediterranean, and after a brief stint in Alba Longa, founded the Roman Empire.

This man needs to be President of the United States.

But what, you may ask, does this heroic tale have to do with the Illinois senator's relationship to the average American: to Joe Schmo and Joe the Plumber; to Tom, Dick, and Harry; to their socially inept cousin, John Q. Public?

As someone who has spent much of his free time and quite a few vacations cavorting about with the working and lower-to-mid-middle class, I can say this: it has everything to do with it.

My reasoning? America is on the verge of another storm. The collapse of our decadent capitalist system, the erosion of America's imperial grip abroad, and a fast-approaching climate disaster are all clouds on our country's horizon. While those of us with prestigious degrees may be able to wait it out in our wine cellars, ordinary Americans are poised to suffer gravely hard times. Their jobs will be eliminated; their homes will disappear beneath the floodwaters; moose will be shot. In a few exceedingly rare (though nevertheless tragic) cases, their sons and daughters will die in senseless wars abroad.

They are people like LeAnn, my family's housekeeper, who after three decades of inhaling cleaning chemicals now suffers from emphysema, and has no health insurance to pay for it. Others have stories like Brent, a neighbor of mine who was kicked out of Princeton and now may lose his job at our local health food store (Americans have puzzlingly little interest in quality, organically-grown cuisine these days - I still shop there). These are the faces of Middle America, and they are straining in fear and uncertainty. Who will rescue them?

Ordinary Americans, you see, are like kittens, stranded on a wind-blasted beach, abandoned by a failed administration to perish in a watery hell (likely the result of global warming).We need Barack Obama, now more than ever, to wrap us in a blanket of responsible fiscal regulation, protect us from the pouring rains of petroleum addiction and a climate meltdown, carry us into the warm shelter of a sound, solvent taxation scheme, and nurse us back to health on the sweet milk of accessible, universal healthcare. Barack Obama can, and will, deliver us from catastrophe. He happens to have experience with this sort of thing.

Val Canesmonk attends the University of Southern California, where he studies Computer Engineering. He was a huge dick to everyone in high school.