...and he decides that, being a nice guy, he'll spring for the pizza. So he has the motorcade stop at a local pizza joint, and he goes in and orders three pizzas. Well, everyone behind the counter and in the shop are surprised to see that the President of the United States just randomly dropped in, and since it was lunchtime, there were a lot of people there. Being the friendly guy that he is, President Obama shakes hands, kisses babies, answers questions, chats up the old veterans in the corner-- the usual stuff that happens at a public visit. Finally, everyone has had a chance to speak with him, so he goes to the counter and orders three pizzas: one cheese, one pepperoni, one arugula and feta on gluten-free crust. The guy behind the counter says, "the first two, no problem! Half an hour, tops. The last one, though... that's gonna take a lot longer." The President waves it off. No problem, take all the time you need. So the pizzamakers get to work, and they're off in every direction getting the President's order ready. One guy is mixing gluten-free dough, one young gal is chopping the arugula, one older lady (named Gladys) is barking out orders and making apple pie. That has nothing to do with this story, it's just part of her job, and she loves making apple pie. Anyway, it takes about two hours for the specialty pizza to be prepped, and all three are tossed in the oven (because every pizzamaker knows that you time your pies to all come out of the oven at the same time; that way none of them sit around and get cold). This whole time, people are coming and going, and President Obama is talking to everyone, and people are taking pictures with him and tweeting them and whatnot. Finally, twelve minutes later, bang, all the pizzas are ready to go. But wait! The Secret Service agents have to check the pizzas-- it's their job. One agent takes out a special kit, dips the end of a cotton swab into a pale blue liquid, dabs it on the pizzas in a dozen random spots on each, and each time, he checks the wet end of the swab. Each time he does, it remains blue. The next agent takes out a special ultraviolet light, and scans the tops and bottoms of each slice; she doesn't see anything out of the ordinary, so it's off to the last stage: the taste test. One hefty agent waddles to the pizzas, chooses a slice of each randomly, and eats each one (he's hefty because he has to taste everything everyone in the First Family eats every day-- there used to be three agents for this, but budgets had to be cut). After a few minutes, he isn't dead; in fact, he proclaims the slices to be the third-best thing he ever tasted for the President (behind a glazed duck breast with an apricot buerreblanc sauce, and a Krispy Kreme donut). So everything is good; time to pay. President Obama whips out the Presidential Debit Card, which deducts right from the Federal Reserve Bank in San Francisco (it has a picture of Ben Bernanke on it). But there's a problem! The pizza joint doesn't accept debit or credit cards, as the owner's nephew forgot to renew the store's account with the transaction service provider (he didn't get fired for that, but he did get fired for discharging a fire extinguisher in the ladies' room trying to put out a wastebasket fire he created whilst trying to sneak a cigarette on the sly). Anyway, no credit cards, and there's no checkbook in sight, so President Obama and all the agents start counting out the money in their pockets, and, including a few dollars worth of pocket change (and one DC transit pass), they have just enough to cover the pizzas and a semi-generous tip. So they take off on the way to the meeting. But they're running really late now; plus, the meeting is really far away, and the pizzas are starting to get cold. So President Obama tells his driver to step on it. The driver insists on going the speed limit, and being sensible; but President Obama isn't having any of that. He tells the driver to pull over, and they switch seats. President Obama is behind the wheel-- and did I mention his hat? No? Alright, while President Obama was waiting for his pizzas, the owner of the store gave him a free hat that had the name of the pizza joint on it. It was a really nice hat, and President Obama liked it so much that he wore it all day. He still wears it from time to time, especially during visits from heads-of-state. It's a conversation starter. Anyway, President Obama gives the brim of this hat a gentle tug, he grips the wheel of the limo, and it's off to the races. I mean, you'd never have expected an armoured limo to go this fast! He was dodging old ladies in Cadillacs, young punks in their GTOs; he even drag-raced a Greaser in a souped-up Hudson Hornet (and beat the dude by a good three car lengths, too!). Anyway, President Obama is just tearing ass down the streets, his driver is in the back praying to as many gods as he can recall just to make it there alive, and wouldn't you know it, about a block or so from the meeting place, a local cop catches him doing 85 in a 25. Sirens blaring, lights flashing, the cop pulls up behind the limo just as President Obama pulls up to the curb. The President is in a rush now, because they're almost late, and the pizzas are nearly cold. So he jumps out, pizza boxes in hand, just as the cop who pulled him over steps out. Now this cop takes one look at the President of the United States, wearing a pizza shop hat, three pizza boxes in hand, striding quickly to the door. He stands there, absolutely shocked, as President Obama walks into the building. The cop slowly turns around, sits back down in his cruiser, and turns to his partner. "I don't know who lives in this place," he says to his partner, "but they must be pretty damned important: they've got President Obama delivering their pizzas!"
Oswego "rimshot" Atheist
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