The President had gone mad again. What could we do? We locked him in the milking shed, hoping he’d calm down.
“The milking shed? Aren’t you worried he’ll hurt himself?” the Chief of Staff asked. He was angry at himself, because he had been away at the napkin shop when this bout of madness had commenced, and his deputy chief of staff was inexperienced.
“Sorry, Sir. It seemed much the best course of action. There was a long strand of red spittle hanging off the President’s chin and his scrap-iron limb was flailing around something serious, too.”
“All right. You did what you had to.” The Chief convened a meeting of all the people who dealt with the President. He yelled down the stairs for the National Security Director who was getting something out of the refrigerator because it was three o’clock and the National Security Director always got hungry around that time. The Army’s only Six-Star General was sleeping. They woke him up. The Counterterrorism Czar was running errands in the Subaru and couldn’t be reached.