{Security inspector walks into Oval Office. Stops dead, mouth open.}
“Are those . . . trap doors?”
“Umm, yes sir. To dump security risks into Teddy Roosevelt’s old alligator pit.”
“Soo . . . why is there a trap door under where the President chair will go? And the couch where Bannon and Miler usually sit?”
{Ten seconds of awkward silence, exchange of nervous glances.}
“Very good. Carry on. And . . . maybe another over there, where Conway does her couch squat.”