Dear Diary: I was taken ill on the flight from Stockholm to St. Petersburg. I wassitting on my secret throne in my Airforce One office when I became delirious. Fortunately, Valerie Jarrett had arranged for my psychiatrist, Dr Rink, to be on board. And he gave me a sedative. But then came the landing at St Petersburg, the transfer to The Beast and a terrifying ride to the Constantine Palace during which I was unable to get a clear reply about the correctness of our destination from either the Doctor or my Secret Service driver. Pootin was quite capable of having me taken to some KGB hellhole for the duration of the G20 meeting. Bastard. Dr. Rink acceded to my frantic request for some more of his miracle sedative. It kicked in just in time for my welcome from Pootin: "Welcome to the Konstantinovitch Palace, Obamavitch" Yikes! His hand seized mine and crushed it with a python-like grip. I had agreed with Dr Rink to meet in a private safe-room which my Secret Service detail had set up for me. Dr Rink told me to lie down down on a sofa and talk about my feelings. This took an unexpectedly long time and I ended up being half-an-hour late for the formal dinner [awkwa-a-rd!] I was given the opportunity, after dessert, of laying out my case to the other delegates for attacking Syria. At the end there was a chorus of boos and Bronx cheers and several delegates threw cheese and petits fours in my direction. Never have I been so insulted! Never!
