Dear Diary: I have been in a state of shock since yesterday when I raided my stash in a concealed compartment in the Resolute Desk, grabbed a Frisbee and took Bo and Sunny out for some "exercise" while I inhaled some lungsful of Maui Wowie. I have written in these pages before about my phobia for killer WW2 vets. But yesterday I faced something even more terrifying than the jeers of blood-thirsty old men. There I was with the two dogs, my joint and the Frisbee, when someone in a sinister black coupe rammed the barrier outside the White House gates. A rebellion, I thought. And so soon ...I guess we did make Obamacare too expensive. I dove onto the grass screaming: " Kool-Aid!" which is the code word the Secret Service uses for Me. Or is it Renegade? Whatever, an agent from my detail sprinted towards my prostrate figure and flung himself on top of me. "The suspect vehicle is now heading toward the Capitol," he said, gasping for air, then he rolled me over, and ran his eyes over my lean, muscular body. "You appear to be unharmed, sir," he said, "apart from that brown stain on your tie." In my haste to dive for cover, I had landed on fresh evidence that Bo's intestines are functioning efficiently. But enough about me.