Oh, Albania!

It's like something out of a movie -- starring you as a misunderstood, dim-witted President whom everyone hates. Your advisers are starting to worry, because you can't seem to set foot in public without touching off protests, not even in Utah, probably. Eventually someone will notice that you haven't set foot outside the protective confines of the White House or Camp David or your dude ranch at which a hit TV show for tweens is filmed when you're not there.

Overseas, the story is no better. The rest of the world hates your country because of you. Whenever you show up overseas, those stupid protesters are there. And wouldn't you know it, the fucking G-8 is in Germany, where you're as popular as late trains and tofu. Now you're starting to worry, too. When was the last time you pressed the flesh besides at a National Chamber of Commerce weenie roast or some shit?

You tell your high-paid advisers that they're right and that they are to immediately order up a visit someplace you'll be sure to get some adoring crowds. Somewhere you can hit up on the way home from the meetings in Baden-Whatsitplatz. Your bright young interns spend the night eating Chinese takeout, crumpling sheets from legal pads and poring through books all night, until they assemble a dossier for your perusal.

You open it to find that you, Mr. President, are going to Albania. Yes, indeed. Time to study up on your new favorite foreign country with your most brightest experts.

Big Chrome calls the shots in the Albanian Congress.

And then the big day comes. They're naming a street for you in Albania City. Who cares! The street's named for you! A whole freakin' street! No one in America has even done that. And you even remembered to mention how beautiful the Adriatic (not Antarctic!) coastline was from Air Force One.

Oh, and those crowds. Everyone was so happy to see you! This was even better than the time you got to dance in the garden with those nice black people.

And look over there! There's someone who wants to shake your hand! What a nice, elderly Albanian man! And someone else! He, too was a nice, Albanian man. And -- oh look -- there's an Albanian mom who wants you to kiss her Albanian baby and when you do, she's so happy you blessed her child, she announces it will be renamed in your honor. And then she cries tears of joy, like the kind you last saw when you grabbed the megaphone and gave a speech, even though there wasn't one planned.

You want to write poems about Albania and return all the love it has shared with you. But there isn't enough time, not if you want to get back and see all the pictures of you basking once again in the love of an entire nation, even if it was only for 90 minutes.

It was almost too soon that you were back on the steps up to Air Force One, making sure not to fall when you waved goodbye to Albania. Once you got in the door, it was time for an ice-cold Clausthaler and a transatlantic nap right after you watch the sun setting over the Adriatic. You wonder what time you'll be getting in to Andrews, so you look at your wrist and, wait, where is it? No way ...

MOTHERFUCKER!

Some Albanian douchebag stole your watch! Oh, why did you ever listen to those stupid fucking interns? See if you ever set foot in that ungrateful hellhole again.