Laura Ingraham's 'Obama Diaries'

Aug. 4, 2010— -- Author, columnist and radio host Laura Ingraham will have you chuckling to yourself or laughing out loud (depending on your political affiliation) with this satiric work of the first family's "diaries."

The author's fourth book and New York Times No. 1 bestseller bills itself as the personal diaries of the president, vice president, first lady and many of the White House staff.

Read an excerpt of the book below and then head to the "GMA" Library to find more good reads.

Excerpt

Introduction

You might call what follows the drama behind Obama.

I didn't go looking for what you are about to read; rather in the grand designs of destiny, it found me. On May 20, 2010, I did what I do every Thursday—I treated myself to a pedicure. It was forty-five minutes of sheer uninterrupted bliss, and I left the salon at the Watergate complex feeling relaxed and carefree. The elevator to the underground parking garage was under repair, so I walked the four floors down to retrieve my car. As I pressed the remote to unlock the car door, my eye caught a thick manila envelope lying on the hood of the car. The words "Property of the American People" were scrawled in black Magic Marker on the front. As I cautiously lifted the package, a deep baritone voice called out from the nearby stairwell. "Just read it," he said. "You'll know what to do." Except for his high-top sneakers, his identity was obscured by the shadows.

"Who are you? What is this?!" I shouted back. The mystery man stood silent for a few seconds and then vanished faster than Obama's high approval ratings. Shaking, I threw the envelope in my car, unsure of what I should do next, or where I should go. Being alone did not seem like a good idea, nor did going straight home. So I drove over to the W hotel, maybe a hundred yards from the White House, where the rooftop bar was humming. I ordered a drink, found a little nook, plopped down, and ripped open the envelope. What I found inside took my breath away—literally. For almost two hours, I sat there—oblivious to the loud dance beat booming over the speakers—leafing through the papers, totally transfixed.