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THE PRESIDENT WOULD adjust his hospital bed and place a call to an old friend. "Bing? It’s Gee Bee. Yes, it has been a long time. Listen, Bing, I’m in a bad spot. Doctor says it doesn’t look good. Chink doctor, smart guy. The good news is I’m going to need about eighty dump trucks of weed to survive the next month. I know, can you believe it? I’m like, ‘Hey, whatever you say, Fu Manchu.’ Yeah. No, he didn’t laugh. So, look, Bing: you never let me down back in the day. Can you help out your old pal Gee Bee? Sure. I think we can make that go away. I know the guy who runs the IRS. Met him at some thing I went to. You’re the best, Bing."

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THE PRESIDENT WOULD check himself out of the hospital and head home, where he’d say a little prayer with his wife Tipper. They’d pull out some old photos and get misty about days gone by, the good times and the bad. Then Al Gore would roll the biggest goddamn fattie you’ve ever seen. Admiring the bread-loaf-sized joint, Tipper would run her fingers through Al’s hair and chuckle, "Still a master of your craft, Albert Gore." "Honey," he’d reply, "let’s take a diplomatic meeting with Ambassador Sweet Bud."