Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

One of the pitfalls of driving to work in Your Nation’s Capital is the occasional disruptions to one’s commute by the various Poo-bahs and Mandarins moving hither and yon across town: Everything from an Ambassador and his train to those rat-bastard Secret Service wallahs in their black Suburbans who flip on their flashers and run traffic lights not for reasons of national security but Because They Can.

The one that gets Ol’ Robbo the most, however, is the departure of the President for Andrews AFB during rush hour.  When Marine One is ready to lift off from the South Lawn of the White House, they shut down the block of Constitution Avenue, which is my line of escape, immediately adjacent until it has cleared.  Sometimes the cops divert the east/west traffic, which is horrible in that it forces me to turn 90 degrees and plunge back into the bowels of the City.  Sometimes they’re content to just let us sit still for the half hour or so it takes to complete operations.

Ol’ Robbo is particularly vexed about this at the moment because I was just half a block short of scarpering through this evening when the lockdown went into effect and snagged me.  That I was sitting (in an open-sided Jeep, mind you, and on the hottest day of the year so far) in front of a fellah who felt that leaning on his horn constantly would somehow speed up the process in any meaningful way, I mention merely in passing.

Ol’ Robbo will admit that the first time one sees Marine One soaring away in these situations, one feels a bit of awe and perhaps pride.  But this is the eighth or tenth time this has happened to me in recent years, and I find myself ever more bitterly wondering why the heck the President can’t schedule such a departure so as to minimize the disruption.  The afternoon exodus from downtown Dee Cee takes place in a pretty tight time-band from around five-ish to about six-thirty.  He can’t move his schedule up or back to accommodate this? Yeesh!

And in a spirit of bipartisanship, or perhaps more a pox on both their houses, I don’t care who is in the chopper – Obama, Trump, Zombie George Washington, whoever – I am equally irked when it happens.

UPDATE:  On reflection, sorry for the whining.  My allergies are killing me, my beloved Nats continue to flatline, and Grumpy Cat is mort.  So Ol’ Robbo is already not really in cheek-turning territory at the moment…