To the White House for an “Evening of Poetry”. Scanning the East Room, I don’t see any actual poets. I mingle about, carefully avoiding Billy Collins. I chat with that girl from 'Til Tuesday. She's overcome severe cat allergies to become a fixture on “adult alternative” radio (or so I'm told). I ask various people if they've seen Edward Williams, and receive blank looks. One of the guests is a rapper. I try to explain to him that “frabbajabous” isn’t a real word. He gives me a blank look.
Eventually the President gives a speech. I give him a blank look. Some doggerel is read. A comedian plays a banjo (why?).
As the festivities wind down, a Secret Service agent approaches, and quietly asks me to follow him. After an elevator ride, we walk down a lengthy hallway, through a door, into a martial arts dojo. Standing there is the First Lady, with a pair of aides slathering oil on her nude body. My mind whirls. I realize she wants to engage me in hand-to-hand combat, au naturel. I'm loosening my tie when Billy Collins walks in. Pointing to my bad knee, I persuade him to take my place. He enthusiastically strips down, and bounds onto the mat. He swings his arms wildly. The First Lady easily takes him to the ground, and proceeds to choke him into unconsciousness.