Barack Obama's Diary: Boo to you, too

Dear Diary:   The Health.gov site and the NSA spying have brought me unbearable anxiety.  This afternoon I decided it was time to try out my rare pakalolo, Blueberry Yum Yum, grown under lights in my new subterranean bunker and tended by my 'trip' director  Marvelous Marv Nicolson.  I rolled a fat joint of the curious blue-tinted weed, called the dogs and threw a Frisbee for them. As they ran, I lit the joint and inhaled deeply. The smoke was fascinating, smelling strongly of blueberries. But then the drug kicked in. It was like igniting  one of those backpack jets  favored by James Bond.  I burst into song:
 "I  believe I can fly. 
I believe I can touch the sky
One of the problems of being President is what to do with your kids  on an occasion like Halloween. We can't just go knocking on random doors. This year we answered the problem by arranging for the Bidens to spend the early evening at their official residence in DC, so Malia and Sasha could dress up in weird costumes  ring the doorbell and hopefully get some chocolate. Still high as a kite on Blueberry Yum Yum, I went with them and a Secret Service detail. We stood well back as the kids rang the doorbell. When the door opened, they yelled:  "Trick or Treat."  At first, fueled by the weed,  I laughed uproariously, but then I got a good look at the man's face  in the porch light and my blood turned to ice.  It was Putin!   Aauuugh!  I screamed and I turned and  fled down the driveway with my Secret Service detail  in hot pursuit, "Sir! Sir!" they cried. " It's OK. It's only Vice President  Biden in a Putin mask." I slowed to a walk and looked back, warily.  Joe Biden was standing on the porch doubled up with laughter, the mask in his hands.  Bastard --as if the past couple weeks haven't been sufficiently ego-bruising. But enough about me.