O Barack Obama, I'm sorry you got run over by a steamroller last night in my dream. Your face was so yellow, worried, and old, with awful anxiety stains. We wanted to do something nice for you. A steamroller parade seemed like just the right thing. How could we have predicted that the steamroller drivers would get so drunk, or that John McCain would turn up and stand there waving and grinning like that, forcing the steamrollers off the road and over your ill-positioned body? By the time we pulled you from the trembling pile, the damage had been done. You looked like a strip of ancient papyrus, flattened and yellowed like that. O Barack Obama, conspiracy theorists will make all kind of insinuations, but I really don't think it was John McCain's fault. He was simply overexcited to see so many steamrollers. Barack Obama, finally, if it's any consolation, I want you to know that I was involved in the subsequent campaign to replace the flag of the United States with your tattered hide. Your skin looks grand flapping in the wind, with sunlight pouring through the holes. You have become a pure symbol now. Perhaps it's better this way. And I hope you enjoyed the steamroller parade, if only for a short while.