(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.)

Aware of her pathological fears of both poverty and saying no, I made her take me to Cabrini-Green, which, if you're unfamiliar with the city of Chicago, is the socioeconomic equivalent to an empty bottle of malt liquor filled with infected syringes. I had her wear a sandwich board with BOTH MY PARENTS ARE DOCTORS in bold black text, and by the end of the night, at very little provocation, she had handed out almost six-hundred dollars to everyone who asked. Because she was such a trooper, I told her to close her eyes and that I was going to give her a surprise. Then I put a rat on her head. She cried some. Then I told her to close her eyes again because I really did have a good surprise. She closed her eyes, and then she was alone in an alley with a blind woman named Cline.

To Lucas, My University-Designated Rooming Person,

I would first like to thank you for being a tolerant and non-judgmental friend. I thank you for understanding why it is important to play Arctic Whale Songs, tracks three, seven, and eleven at startling volumes each night as we try to sleep. I thank you for taking all my violent accusations with a gentle spirit, and not pressing charges when I cut off your girlfriend's unsymmetrical ponytail. I thank you for waiting in the hallway for exactly thirteen minutes every morning while I change out of my jammies and examine my body for any new moles or lumps that might have surfaced over night. Also, I thank you for recognizing how truly important it is to store my urine in gallon Ziploc bags in the mini-fridge alongside your sodas and perishable comestibles. You've exemplified noteworthy dedication to diplomatic cohabitation, and there's not much more I can ask of you. Except the following seven things:

The eighth season of American Idol kicked off last night, and I was so excited that I watched it.

The first round of auditions took place in scorching Phoenix, where the talent and landscape were comparably barren. Randy, still sporting a modest layer of blubber, was literally melting all over the carpet, much to the dismay of Manuel, the mop-wielding custodian with the villainous mustache visible in certain celebratory shots.

The first surprise of the new season was the fourth judge, Kara DioGuardi, the big-time songwriter/producer who must literally sit outside Disney World with an enormous net, as she is behind the, ahem, music of bubbalicious stars like Hillary Duff, Miley Cyrus, Raven Symone, Vanessa Hudgens, and, go figure, Carlos Santana. She and Paula totally had the girl power thing going on, and it was expectedly irritating.