So there’s my wife and I sitting on a nice, we assume bugged, bench one November day in D.C.'s Lafayette Square, watching a small crowd of protestors. We gleaned from the signs that they objected to the King of Morocco visiting the White House. I had suggested we stay to see what we could of the ceremonial military drill (the 
military puts on a good show). Secret Service was driving around, yelling at people a bit down on Pennsylvania Ave., but we were way back from that, where a few uniformed and non-uniformed individuals were lurking, some hiding behind trees. 
“Oh my god, pizza boxes,” I noted wryly, as a man of plausibly Moroccan heritage walked past us to the protest with an order of at least eight large pizzas, “what’s the chance, you think, that the Secret Service has agents in all of the Washington pizza joints?”
The gentleman was, fortunately, indeed bringing pizza.
We left a little while later, and one of the behind-the-trees lurkers could barely keep a straight face as we walked by.
I don’t really envy the Secret Service’s job.
