I was a happy tourist at the pinnacle of Washington’s Monument when I became woozy and awakened an indeterminate time later in a dungeon. God, kidnapped by terrorists, I thought but reconsidered when several white males, attired in green surgical gowns, marched in and one said, “Experimentation will begin when the chief returns.”

“Who’s he and when’s that?”

Silently, they took me to a room resembling a large studio apartment, minus windows, where I read whatever I asked for, save news reports, exercised on a treadmill, and watched any video-streamed movie I desired. Two days later they escorted me to an elevator that moved up and delivered me to a large hallway where a slender, graying man said, “Welcome to my home. I’m Barack Obama.”

A mini-skirted waitress presented her tray to Obama and he took one of two shot glasses. “Tequila,” he said.

“No thanks. I don’t drink.”

“Sorry, but this isn’t optional.”

Obama chugged his. I hesitated, and the surgeons approached. “Let’s cooperate,” one said.

The waitress extended a glass I downed, and my stomach erupted into singed sinuses.

“Keep em comin,” said Obama. He pointed to several cameras recording our activities. “Don’t worry, only a shot every ten minutes.”

We chatted about our families and other genial matters but as shots mounted brains heated and Obama began bragging about economic and diplomatic achievements.

I raised my right hand and said, “Glad I twice voted Republican.”

“You evidently love disaster.”

“Which you’ve exacerbated.”

“Are you a fascist or an oaf? Likely both.”

“I’m a citizen ready to stop a megalomaniac from further ruining business and strangling personal liberty.”

Obama erupted from his padded chair and reached over the coffee table to slap my cheek with his left hand. I popped off the sofa, over the table, and cuffed his cheeks with either hand, and we dipped and ducked and swatted each other for an invigorating minute before the surgeons intervened, and one said, “See you tomorrow night.”

My hangover had just waned when I was summoned to Obama’s private quarters. The right side of his jaw was slightly swollen. I had two fat lips.

He lit a hand-rolled cigarette emitting a pungent odor and inhaled like a vacuum cleaner.”

“I don’t do that.”

He exhaled storm clouds and said, “Tonight, you do.”

Glancing at his stern medical team, twenty feet across the room, I accepted the joint and inhaled.

“Hold it in,” said Obama.

I tried but coughed.

“You’re a bit of a wuss but you’ll improve.”

“Haven’t done this since college.”

“I’m more recent but it’s been years now.”

We puffed and wheezed and put it down to rest and resumed until the joint got short and Obama said, “Too short,” and flicked it into the fireplace.

“Your eyes are red,” I said.

“Naturally, this stuff’s Hawaiian, the bud of my youth. How bout some hoops.”

“Don’t feel like playing now,” I said.

“On my flat screen – LeBron against Durant.”

“Roll another one.”