"what happened after we left the inaugural ball?" he wondered to himself. tripped over a size 12 slipper on his way to the bathroom. he picked it up and pitched it into a cardboard box marked with "BUSH" in black sharpie.
"why do i get the feeling i'm going to be cleaning up his messes for awhile," our hero said, shuffling into the adjacent bathroom.
what the ...?
"michelle?!" he called, the empty room echoing. "what the hell is this thing on my head?!"
his wife yawned, and loped into the room behind him with just one eye open. she was still wearing her white jason wu inaugural gown -- although in the course of the night, she had broken free of the constrictive single strap and it was now a jason wu strapless inaugural gown. she was wearing our hero's white bow tie as a hippie headband.
"it's aretha's hat," she said. yawned again. lifted the purple bird from his head. "you really wanted it. she said she would give it to you if you stopped calling her 'queen latifah,'" michelle explained.
"huh," he said. "but did i do or say anything stupid?"
she rolled up the sleeve of his white undershirt to reveal a tattoo'd no. 44 inked across his arm just below his shoulder.
"depends on what you think about this," she said.
at breakfast, our hero could barely stomach even just the ears from the bunny pancakes sasha had prepared in the oval kitchen. the syrup pooled in such a way that he kept seeing ronald reagan's face sneering at him in his uneaten meal. he pushed the plate away.
"just juice," he said to his daughter. "and nine advil."
"arghhh," michelle groaned, walking into the kitchen, her hair wet from bathing. "we need a plumber. i just took a shower in six inches of salon selectives and laura bush's perm."
our hero laid his head on the table.
"a senator would just call in sick today," he groaned. "presidential declaration: casual wednesday."
"funny," michelle answered, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "you were actually yelling that in the streets last night."
our hero kept half of his proclamation. he strode into his new office at 10 a.m. sharp, wearing a stiff white shirt, starched tie and adidas wind pants and flip flops. he started to sit in his chair, then jumped up as if shocked. he used a handkerchief to wipe down the seat.
he knew who had sat in that chair before him.
our hero leaned back and surveyed the room, wondering where his predecessor had left the traditional note. and there, propped in front of him, was the etch-a-sketch. on it, scrawled in the nobbed hand of an elementary-school-aged etch-a-sketch prodigy was the word "welkom" written in aluminum powder and plastic beads.
our hero grabbed his super secret blackberry and sent his wife a text message.
"we are never going out on a tuesday night ever again."