I overslept. No time for breakfast. I’ll just grab a hot dog at the ballpark. Actually, I’ll have a hot dog here, too. One hot dog here, one at the ballpark. I’m a superstar pitcher for the Boston Red Sox.

Driving my Volvo to the stadium is really fun and safe, and I’m really good at it. Oh, my best pitch? It’s a curveball. I’m allowed to throw a curveball at this point in my life because I’m a man and my elbow is fully developed. I can throw as many curveballs as I want.

Actually, I have a few minutes to spare. I’m going to make a quick detour to my historian office, where I am a historian. There’s an amphora fresh in from Greece. An amphora is a vase. It’s sitting on my desk and I have to analyze it. Where did it come from? What is its story? This is the hardest part of my historian job. I ponder the problem for a little bit while playing Game Gear, and it suddenly hits me: it’s from a completely awesome shipwreck. Then it’s time for the most fun part of the job, as a bunch of journalists come in to photograph me standing next to the amphora and holding the amphora over my head.

Then I speed to the stadium and one-hit the Blue Jays.


Tuesday. Hump day, and also the one day of my workweek when I really have to focus all of my energy on being the president of the United States of America. I start the day early with a quick visit to the Lincoln Memorial. Next, I’m off to hold an underprivileged student on my lap and read to his class from Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree, the greatest and saddest of books. By the time I finish, there isn’t a dry eye in the room. The only exception is a journalist who is busy writing a positive editorial.

At 3 p.m. I make a brief relief appearance in a day game against the Seattle Mariners. I just pitched the day before and the coach says I don’t have to play if I don’t want to, but I want to. I strike out the side to secure the victory. There isn’t a dry eye in the crowd. As I walk off the field, I slowly spin around, amazed: Are they all standing and clapping for me? It turns out they are.

Back in Washington, I pass some popular legislation making it illegal for rich people to kill poor people. (Why didn’t you think of this, Founding Fathers?) Then, in a courageous political move, I decide to end poverty altogether. “This will be good for America,” I announce in a televised address to the nation. “It’s strange that this never occurred to Franklin Delano Roosevelt or John F. Kennedy. They were pretty great presidents, but keep in mind that this never occurred even to them.”


I take Wednesdays off.


First, I publish a scholarly article in Science magazine on the Greek amphora. My amphora and I make the cover. A filmmaker stops by the historian office. He wants me to speak on the subject of the Roman gladiators and also on the Black Death. I’m running a little late, but I still manage to make history come alive for a few minutes. As he’s leaving, the filmmaker adds, “Congratulations on making the cover of Sports Illustrated, Mr. President.” I shrug modestly: “It’s not the first time.”

Then I’m off. To where? Not to the stadium, nor to the White House, nor to a strange detour back to the historian office. No, I’m off to my son’s elementary school, where I pick him up early. Mrs. White, who is still teaching first grade but has become even meaner, won’t let him leave at first, but I send in my Secret Service guys and some of the Army. My son is overjoyed to see me. “Thanks for making me a top priority, even though I know you have a lot of important work,” he says, maturely. “I know Grandpa never did that for you.” I nod. “You’re right, he didn’t. He should have, but he didn’t.”

Then we go ride roller coasters at Six Flags, and we never have to wait in any lines, because it’s 2 p.m. on a Thursday, and also because I’m the president.


I also take Fridays off.