The most amazing thing happened to me last weekend. Since then, my entire outlook on the presidency has transformed. It all began when the missus and I were out on one of our secret milkshake runs. You see, the White House kitchen makes a mean milkshake. I don't want to give the impression that the shakes at home are lackluster, but a good shake isn't the best shake. There's this old-style malt shop right on the Indiana/Illinois border that makes, and I am not exaggerating, the most amazing milkshake ever devised by the wonders of human ingenuity. So, every now and then me and Michelle put on some disguises, hop into a beat-up Camry and make the trip west. Usually the visit is quick and, however tasty, uneventful. But not this time. Not last Saturday. Not when I thoroughly kicked this one guy's ass.

Michelle and I rolled into town around sunset. The malt shop wouldn't be open for much longer, so we had a choice to make. Grab a motel room and get our shake on first thing the next morning, or use a little taxpayer money to convince the owner to keep the machines running for an extra hour? Yeah, like that was a hard decision. A few green portraits of the greatest president who never was slid across the counter and we had the whole shop to ourselves. We were already two milkshakes deep when the bells on the front door started jingling.

In walks this swaggering sunovagun, stinking of cheap rum and singing "Celebrate Good Times" at a volume that anyone with good sense would know isn't appropriate for a public place. The guy sat down next to Michelle and mumbled something that made her uncomfortable. I could tell by the way she changed her posture. Already I was pretty steamed at the guy for intruding on my sacred milkshake hour, but I knew that if I made a scene our cover might be blown. The guy ordered a banana shake and immediately hit it with a heavy dose of rum. I nearly lost it right then and there. How dare he sully one of the greatest milkshakes ever made with his rotten, off-brand booze?

Michelle got up to powder her nose and that's when I got a good look at the guy. It was a little hard to tell behind his scraggly hair and sweaty stubble, but one good look was all I needed to recognize this soused bastard. Rod frickin' Blagojevich. At first I thought that this was some cruel joke, but after one stout sip of my double chocolate swirl shake I perked up and realized that this was a gift. I don't know if it was the disguise or the fact that he was drunk off his gourd, but old Blago didn't recognize me, at least right away. He looked at me with those glazed-over eyes and said, "I used to be a big deal, ya know." That's when I grabbed him by his collar and dragged his sorry ass into the alley where I could give it a proper kicking.

It was incredible. After months of feeling like I was losing my grip on the presidency, I started to feel the power return to my hands with each punch to Rod's bloated gut. My only regret is that the rum probably dulled the pain for him, not that it would keep doing its job the next day. Right then and there I resolved to approach all of my political problems the same way. It would just be a matter of figuring out whose ass to kick. When I went back inside the malt shop Michelle asked me where I had been. I finished my shake and I said, "Just taking out the trash."