I just woke up from a dream that I was the President (of the United State of America, tyvm), and that I had to perform my own brain surgery because no qualified surgeon would acknowledge that I even needed brain surgery. Fools!
Thing went much better than anyone had any right to expect, although it transpired that I had not planned for the re-attachment of a removed skull fragment . Working with a traumatized aide, I found a nice, sterile home for said fragment in a padded FedEx overnight pouch. “That”, thought the president, “will do until I can get to a surgeon”. (Surely even the quacks at Bethesda would agree that I needed that procedure!)
But in the interim, I had to perform some public Presidently duties. Understandably, I was unable to hide my open-brainedness. Some around me began to express (haltingly at first, then in more strident tones) concerns about my fitness for office. It was not clear whether these concerns stemmed from my alarming physical condition or the fact that I had performed my own brain surgery in the first place.
As I was waking from my dream, President me (who admits that, sure, it looks a little “crazy” and people can’t be blamed for talking et cetera) was allowing himself to be persuaded that, in all likelihood, he was a raving loon.
(That didn’t stop Nixon from serving the better part of 6 years! Ba-dum bum!)
To be fair to my administration’s critics, the results of my surgery looked a bit more like this picture than my description of a mild trepannation might suggest—with the top of my skull clean off (skin, hair and all) and my superior, better-than-average, more-than-usual POTUS brain pulsating for all the world to see. One of the funnier moments of my dream (there were so many!) involved my aide trying to fold the FedEx envelope containing the top of my skull so that it would fit in a jacket pocket, and I’m all like “dude, wtf? [laughtrack titter] That’s. My. Skull! [laughtrack roar]” I think if it were a sitcom, that would be my catchphrase.