Anyway, as I was saying, I have a secret plan to get Osama bin Laden. It's so secret, I'm not even telling the President. He'd just run right out and do it. Then I wouldn't get any credit. And besides, I can't tell him anyway. It's so secret, I've compartmentalized it by telling myself only part of the plan, the part about the fish.
Some other guy knows the rest. I don't know his identity; that's part of the secret. All I know is that someday, he'll approach me at the Dupont Circle Metro Station. He'll be wearing a vicuna coat, a fedora, an eye patch, and he'll have a parrot on his shoulder. He'll ask me for a smoke. I'll respond with "Lucky Strike won the Big War." Then he will launch into a rendition of I Feel Pretty from West Side Story. By then, I will have forgotten I'm at a secret agent rendezvous, so I'll think he's hitting on me. I'll call my Secret Service agents over and order them to detain him, deny him habeas corpus, and ship him off to Gitmo. After a few days of undergoing
That's the kind of national security thinking I bring to the table.
Goddammit Joe. We missed the beginning of Matlock again.