So last night, while we were in Chicago at a Democrat fundraising event, Big Guy decided to drive by the old homestead, pick up the mail that has been making a big pile in the middle of the foyer for the past six months, and make sure he really had turned off the iron before he locked up last December. Our neighbor, Bill Ayers, is supposed to be keeping an eye on the place, but given his life-style back in the 1960s, and '70s, '80s, '90s, and '00s, let's just say he isn't the most reliable individual to be house-sitting unless you have a lot of junk food in your kitchen to keep him busy.
Problem was, Big O left the house keys in the candy dish back in the Oval. Given my slight build, Rahm suggested that I crawl through the basement window and open the place up. But after the whole Skip Gates fiasco, I wasn't breaking and entering anything. Big Guy suggested that Toes do it, because if he got shot we could plausibly say it was a hate crime since everyone hates Toes.
In the end, Big Guy had the Secret Service jimmy the lock, then had them wait outside just in case Ayres had started one of his "hydroponic projects" in the living room. Beyond the mail, the only other thing Big Guy needed to check on was a shoebox up in his bedroom where he keeps his personal papers, like the original copy of birth certificate, the license from his first marriage in California, and his William Jefferson Clinton Presidential Library card. Given the relieved expression he had when we left, I can only assume that either everything's okay, or he really believed that crap he sputtered on national TV the other night without my guidance and was just glad he didn't run into some of Chicago's finest on the way out.