Congratulations on Getting Out of Gitmo!

This week has been a roller coaster ride for you. It started off with you fingering the First Lady, then getting the shit kicked out of you by our surprisingly bad-ass President. Since then you’ve spent most of your week learning basic Spanish along with the operational procedures of Guantanamo Bay. Your natural hotness has been kept under wraps due to your relatively heavy bruising and the fact that most of your days are spent in isolation, where no one can see your face or know that you have feelings, family members who care about you or memories of any kind.

The end result will be a super introspective week where you’ll have learned a lot about who you really are, what you really want and just how far you can be pushed. You’ll have learned that you have a very low threshold for pain, and that you don’t really deal with it well when people don’t give you food or water for an entire day. But don’t despair! Today things are going to get way better.

Today instead of just kicking the shit out of you first thing in the morning the guards will burst into your cell with a set of manacles and a hood. They’ll hold you down while they fit you with the restraints and then lead you out, occasionally bumping you into walls.

“Oops,” they’ll mumble sarcastically each time they do so, laughing under their breath as they push you on. The walk will last for around fifteen minutes, and it will come as a tremendous relief to your atrophied muscles, bundled from hours spent shackled, prone in your cell.

The walk will end with you being shoved into a loud place with a metal floor. The sensation of dramatic movement paired with the rhythm of the noises surrounding you will eventually let you figure out that you’re on a helicopter. A very fast helicopter, by the way it makes you feel.

You’ll remain hooded for the entire flight. Not until you’re back on the ground and you’ve been lead through several halls will the hood be removed, revealing a doctor’s office with a tired old man in a lab coat standing in it. He’ll give you a brief physical, occasionally making marks on a clipboard, speaking to you only about your medical history. When the entire process is done he’ll knock on the door and a pair of Secret Service agents, including the one that caught you on Monday, will burst into the room.

“Come with us sir,” he’ll say in a forceful tone, not a whit of familiarity in his voice.

You’ll follow them through incredibly decadent, vaguely familiar winding halls. After a minute of walking around you’ll realize just why they’re so familiar: you’ll be in the White House. And you’ll be heading towards the Lincoln Bedroom, where you once banged Susan Rice.

When you reach the doors the Secret Service agent who caught you will open it for you, holding it open with a grin on his face.

“They’re waiting for you,” he’ll inform you tonelessly as his compatriot gently pushes you through the opening.

Inside the Lincoln Bedroom you’ll find Michelle Obama waiting for you in a nightgown with the biggest of grins on her face.

“Welcome back,” she’ll purr at you.

Your first reaction will be panic.

“Your husband,” you’ll begin, sweating pouring from your pores, stinging in your still-open cuts. But then a hand will come down on your shoulder, strong and reassuring.

“Let’s do this,” Barack Obama will tell you, grabbing your belt from behind as the First Lady advances on you, propelling you into the annals of history.

Congratulations on Getting Out of Gitmo!