10.09.2025

So you can saunter right in the front door of the White House these days, apparently. I'm a guy with a package to deliver, I tell the marines, and they don't say anything or move or blink or appear to be breathing so I'm on my way. Instinct tells me I don't want to go in that direction, that's where the assholes work, so I turn the other way and there's Chuck Schumer for some reason and we don't have anything to say to each other. I'm in the food court, hanging with the other plebs. Folks complaining about their supervisors, their pay, how annoying their in-laws are and how sick their kids got last year. I'm having a great time but then there's this package, the one with the cookie dough. That's the whole reason I'm here. Anyone know where Andy's Wine Shop is? A lady in a fluorescent vest waves in a general direction. A stall in the corner, not much of a storefront, bulletproof glass with a space at the bottom for exchanging goods and cash. You Andy? I ask the woman and she looks at me like I'm a fool. I have this package, you've probably been waiting for it. Don't think it will fit under the glass. Just leave it on the floor, she says. What do I do now? Whatever you want, she says, you're in the White House.