It has been a long time since I had a distressed call from Valerie Jarrett asking me to make a discreet visit to Patient's private apartment. The prospect of addressing the Nation in the wake of the California massacre had apparently overwhelmed him. I found him lying face down on a hideous brown sectional sofa, beating feebly at the faux velvet. I had come prepared with a hypodermic syringe--and a generous dose of Ativan, a mild sedative which I immediately injected into one of Patient's scrawny buttocks. I warned Jarrett that Patient would now be in no condition to deliver a stirring speech. "Was he ever?" she shrugged.--- Dictated by S.H. Rink, M.D.
