I went to Hawaii when I was ten. I had honey-dipped fried chicken from room service at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Waikiki beach. It was the best chicken I ever had. I rode the glass elevator for hours. Candy bars there cost 50 cents, in 1980.

Ever since then, I've noticed that I sometimes act in ways which appear to be intended to foment rebellion against the Federal government. I'll do something treasonous, then, in a flash, I'll wake up and wonder what I'm doing. You see, I only know about these things I do from what witnesses tell me. I don't remember them myself. I wake up in strange places, often surrounded by groups of angry people, all of them wide-eyed with the zealous rage of the newly-converted. They often expect me to lead them. Somewhere. They shout things about anarchy and taking back the country.

While I can't be sure, I fear the little tiki idol I found in a cave on Maui, and which I now keep on a cord around my neck, is cursed and leads me to do these things. It leads me; I lead them; I don't know its purpose, but I fear the worst.

Though I sometimes think I should, I can't take it off - even the thought nauseates me. It has become precious to me.

While I fear my fate is sealed, I hope Barack Obama doesn't find any cursed idols on his vacation ... or, more importantly, that he doesn't already have one...