Dear Diary: Happy birthday to moi! [that's French for Me for those who lack my extraordinarily comprehensive and costly education]. This has been a day fit for a king, as it should be, with my majestic self turning 51. Eric Holder tried to cheer me up by saying: "Only 51? I've got ammunition older than that buried on the Mexican border." The day's real fun only began with an early round of golf at Joint Base Andrews, with the dew still heavy on the grass. My companions, as usual, stayed a tactful stroke behind the boss. Between holes I approved a drone attack on someone on my kill list in Waziristan: the CIA often call me on the iPresidentphone during rounds of golf because they have discovered how I love to multi-task and look cool in front of my golf partners. After my richly-deserved golfing victory, I was driven onward to Camp David and the Presidential cabin, where I stashed my blankey, Boo-boo, under the Presidential pillows. The resilience of the Camp David Presidentopedic is irritatingly different from the one at the White House. The Presidential doctor suggested a mild sedative to help alleviate the increasing Mitt-mares as my poll numbers temporarily deteriorate. I declined, but I may take up the offer in the unlikely event that Mitt further erodes the profound affection for My Majesty in voters' hearts. Meantime I shall continue to rely on my blankey Boo-boo to soothe me to sleep. Barry luv Boo-boo, um-num-num-um...zzzzz...
