(President Obama and Oprah are seated across from one another in two arm chairs. The president is well postured and dignified. Oprah is wearing a yellow pantsuit and a button that reads "Yes Oprah Can." She lifts her leg and farts. The room begins to smells like wet twenty dollar bills.)

Oprah: So, Baracky boy—

Obama: —Please, Mr. Obama or President Obama works fine.

Oprah: Oh? But shouldn't we be on a first name basis? After all, I'm irrefutably the most powerful black woman on the planet and you're the most powerful black man. You'd think that'd constitute some sort of…affinity.

(She reaches forward and strokes his thigh. He immediately jerks his leg away.)

Obama: Miss Winfrey, this is entirely uncou—

Oprah: —Ope. Just call me Ope. Like Hope without the H.

Obama: Oprah, this is exceedingly inappropriate, and who we are as professionals shouldn't license us as individuals to…

(President Obama lectures about ethics while Oprah, not actually listening, applies very bright lipstick and unbuttons the top button on her jacket.)

Obama: …people of integrity to a higher standard. Is that understood?

Oprah: You know, Mr. President, I never married because I didn't think there was a man who could ball in my court. But as I understand, you truly are commander in chief when you play.

(Oprah is somehow eating Combos suggestively.)

Obama: Alright, you know what, I'm disgusted by your behavior and this meeting is over. It would be wise for you to never contact me for the remainder of this presidency.

Oprah: What?

Obama: You heard me, get out! I no longer want to see you.

Oprah: No one says no to Oprah.

Obama: Well I just did.

Oprah: Oh no. You. Di'int. Don't tell me you just did.

(Inexplicably, Oprah begins to gain some serious weight, and her jacket rips at the shoulders.)

Obama: Oh yes I did, and it'd be highly advisable for you to…are you okay?

(Oprah is growing larger and larger by the second. She has morphed to resemble something like a thirteen-foot sea lion, with terrifying fangs and incredible musculature. Obama, stupefied and fearful, takes cover behind his arm chair. He is manically pressing his secret Life Alert button on his watch to alert security.)

Oprah: HARPO MAD!!!!

Obama: Please, Miss Winfrey, we can settle this civilly—


Obama: Please, Oprah, my wife and my kids…

(Oprah is now destroying priceless portraits and rare volumes from the book shelf. Along with long green strands of mucous, Sacajawea dollars are falling out of her mouth. At last, Secret Service agents burst into the room and pepper her with a slew of tranquilizers. She falls defeated, taking with her an antique chandelier. Obama stands up and brushes himself off.)

Agent: Mr. President, where would you like her sent?

Obama: Anywhere but Guantanamo.

Aid: Mr. President, shall we disclose this under the Freedom of Information Act?

Obama: Never.