Dear Diary: Cambodia sure is confusin'. I met with Prime Minister Yoshihiko Noda of Japan and Premier Wen Jiabao of China in Phnom Penh and neither seemed pleased that I mistook each for the other. Mine was an understandable error, surely? Wearin' name tags is plain commonsense in countries where people should
know they all look the same. They told me their countries are having a nasty territorial dispute over some God-forsaken rocks. I kept my advice friendly and casual: "Pull yourselves together, Chinks." I told them. I explained my recent experience with Benghazi. "When in doubt, just ignore your people's pleas and the problem will go away." I added: "Meantime, get some name-tags so you can recognize each other. And the rich must pay their fair share." I noticed for the first time that, when oriental faces flush, they turn a peculiar shade of orange. My Secret Service detail suddenly became agitated, bundled me out of the room, frog-marched me out to my limo, then drove at high speed to Air Force One. We took off immediately, with me thinkin'
What was all that all about? I am now tucked up in my bedroom in my blue jammies, suckin' on the satin edge of Boo-boo my blankey, listenin' to the soothin' voice of Al Green on my iPod, mixed with the muted roar of four Pratt and Whitneys as we fly back to DC.
