Dear Diary: I have to confess that I'm bored. I think Moose is bored, too. [for occasional Diary readers, Moose is my ultra-secret diary name for Michelle]. Just how many days can you spend whacking a small ball around the same course, eating the same dinner of steak, yam fries and collard greens, then gathering the family around a TV to watch Jeopardy? I get enough real-life jeopardy from Vlad Putin. Moose always announces the answers in that superior tone of hers, so I don't even get the pleasure of showing off my knowledge of geography in front of the kids. Even Wheel of Fortune is too similar to my own decision-making processes in the Oval Office to hold my interest for long. I must hit up one of my aides for some Maui Wowie to break me out of this funk. I am longing to get back to the White House where Valjar and I can hunch together over our cauldron, chant "double, double, toil and trouble," throw in eye of Newt and toe of frog and resume GOP-baiting. I am also well overdue for a soothing session with Dr S.H. Rink, psychiatrist to the eminent and distinguished, such as I, whose massive bills are picked up by the military. No Obamacare for me, thank you. I understand that dingy Harry Reid fell off an item of gym equipment yesterday and broke some bones in his face. I have tried hard not to laugh; but the thought of Harry on a treadmill brings tears to my eyes, and, as for broken bones in his face: how can a person tell?
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