I emerged from the north portico of the White House at 9am, immaculate in a white polo shirt, shorts and sandals. I was carrying a briefing book, so that I would look busily engaged in global affairs on my way to the golf course at Joint Base Andrews where I played a round with my golfing buddies Marty Nesbitt and Eric Whitaker. As is my habit, at the third hole I pulled my specially engraved iPhone out of my pocket and called the Pentagon, ordering a drone strike in Yemen on a target who's on the death list. This always psyches my golfing buddies and reminds them that I'm merely tolerating their company: win by too big of a margin, buddies, and boom! you're Predator meat. But enough about me.