Every time I think I've gotten the hang of all this presidential stuff, something else comes along to challenge me. I got on the plane to Prague thinking that I was going to have to deal with some hard-living Eastern European politicians sitting in some cold room trying to cut through the ten-inch thick tension in the air about nuclear weapons in the 21st century. I prepared myself for some hard-hitting rhetoric with Medvedev, if only to prove that while America is willing to come to the table without preconditions for diplomatic discussions it doesn't mean we're pushovers. Hell, I even booted up my old Rosetta Stone: Russian software for the first time in a couple years. No sooner did I step off Airforce One than some Ukrainian lackey jabbering about I don't know what put a stein in my hand. I wasn't in the country five minutes before it was do svidaniya to my sobriety.

At first I thought it was a joke, but things got serious real fast when I showed up at the "conference table". It was at some tavern called The Laughing Wenceslas. The most powerful men in the region had taken over the entire bar and from the looks of things they were already six beers deep into the day. It was 11:00 AM local time.

If word of this gets out, it might be a stain on my presidency for all time. This diary is a document of the true account, just in case I need it. Sometimes a man's best defense, his only defense, is himself. I have always been a man of strong constitution. I didn't get beat by the White Lady, whose allure is stronger than any clean-nosed boyscout will ever comprehend. I've overcome every kind of slander and defamatory assault. But those hops. Those beautiful, Bohemian hops. They hit you like a tidal wave made of every first flower of spring since the dawn of creation. They cradle your senses and tell you that everything is going to be all right, that one sip won't kill you, that you deserve a taste. It goes down smooth as chocolate milk in childhood.

I have no real memory of how much time passed between one beer to the next. The Bulgarian President, Parvanov, he was in charge of "The Catching Up Yankee Boy". Every time my stein was even half empty, he'd make sure it got filled back up. Now, when I drink I get a bit... proud. Danio Turk, the Slovenian, he was the best at pushing my buttons. He'd say things like, "Oh, look. Mr. Gets 300,000 People in Berlin has had enough already. Maybe we ought to let him go to bed before he gets a tummy-ache." And then I'd chug.

I don't remember how, but we ended up at some restaurant in the Jewish quarter. I was starving, so I ate whatever they put in front of me. It wasn't hard, either. Czech food is off all kinds of hooks. That's when the vodka came out. Medvedev insisted. You know how Russians are. There's got to be a bottle on every table, no exceptions. Everyone would get a shot and we'd all pound it at once. After that, who knows what happened? Maybe some night clubs, maybe some hanging out the windows of limousines. Maybe some light espionage.

Somehow, I got that treaty signed. Nuclear Non-Proliferation, significant reduction of existing arms in all categories, no distinction between offensive and defensive weapons. Oh, but they got me. I wake up this morning and discover that I've agreed to sponsor the first American participant in the Eurovision Music Contest, foster a ten-year trade agreement with Estonia to exchange plushies of their most popular TV character "Skovie the Peregrine" for various American candy bars, and mandate a "Sausage Appreciation Week" in all American public schools. This is the diplomatic equivalent of waking up with drawings of dicks all over your face.