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“I had heard that Bummer was tutored as a kid by a pedophile — thus a chance he could have been homosexually molested. If so, it is not something I would wish even on Bummer. But Bummer should know better.
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You prolly mean Frank Marshall Davis
Who was a pervert who wrote pervy erotica books. Was an admitted bisexual and strongly hinted he and his wife had threesomes with underage girls
Also was a communist too
This guy hung with Obama and “gramps” and smoked pot with them sometimes drank booze also
-————————————”

Also they took little O down to the local house of ill reput with them...and then there is Obama’s little poem...
WARNING this will make possible you hurl or cry...Obama has a sad twisted past...no wonder he is an angry man, It seems obvious to me this is about abuse, the imagery is graphic. The reviewer at the link is in deep denial if he thinks it is an affectionate poem about O’s relationship with gramps:

“Pop”

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies...
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.

http://www.loc.gov/rr/program/bib/prespoetry/bo.html