Cavuto: I feel your pain, Mr. President

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Cavuto: It's his party and Obama will cry if he wants to

I feel your pain, Mr. President

It's his party, go ahead and let the president cry if he wants to. Because four out of six of the Persian Gulf leaders he invited aren't coming to his party and it's got to have him bumming.

After all, White House invites are a big deal. A bunch of crown princes offered a chance to crash at Camp David? Come on! Even for sheikhs, that's pretty big sheikh. But apparently not big enough to have them gas up their G4s and jet to D.C.

And don't tell me Thursday's bowling night in Riyadh and they just can't cancel on that. Because the real excuse the Saudi foreign minister is giving, isn't much better. Adel al-Jubeir says the summit coincides with a humanitarian cease-fire in Yemen, so his majesty King Salman sends his regrets.

Really?

And what about the other three? Hangnails? Laundry to do? Peasants to feed? Gays to fling off buildings? What?

Why are so many saying they just don't have the time? I'm told because the party host just ain't worth the time. Many of them are still fuming about the president's overtures to Iran -- the same country whose paid insurgents are wreaking havoc in the Middle East.

So, Mr. President, what they're saying is, they sure as heck aren't going to party with you. Because this is a crisis no Camp David cookout can cure.

Amazing. But for me, sadly familiar. Because, Mr. President, I feel your pain.

The whole party diss thing? Been there. Done that. Cried over that.

You're reliving my worst high school and college memories: Inviting people to a party who never show up and left staring at bowl after bowl of Cheez Doodles and Ring Dings, now all opened, and too late to send back. ABBA songs playing in the background, but no one with whom to lip sync the words.

Mr. President, I know these moody blues. And I know come Thursday they will get even bluer as  you sit alone at that Camp David picnic table and just eat and eat and hope the carbohydrate high makes up for feeling so low.

For a while, Mr. President, it does. Until you realize, you're eating alone and not just because your wife hates snack food. But because the guests you were ready to party with hate you.