Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: I saw this ( www . facebook photo . php ?fbid = 646539838774161 & set = a . 199752386786244 . 46564 . 199475330147283 & type = 1 & theater) photo on facebook and couldn't resist.

Circles, not ovals

He had graduated from Columbia university with all of the necessary credentials, he had taught constitutional law at the university of Chicago law school and had worked as a civil rights attorney. Yet despite all of the life experience he had in preparation for this moment, nothing could have prepared him for this.

Dancing on top of his shiny new desk where he would work tirelessly for four years if not re-elected, was a 5'9 slightly tanned blonde man with a strange cow lick, bright blue eyes and an average pair of glasses. So why in the name of all that was holy was this man on his desk? Not only was he dancing, badly he might add, on the president's desk, but he was doing so to 'Party in the U.S.A', finding the source of the tacky music to be coming from his pocket, volume blaring from probably a phone or mp3.

That was when he noticed the others.

There were five of them, all in sleek black suits and ties, hair suavely gelled back with pilot sunglasses and an ear piece in one ear. The secret service didn't bother him in the slightest, as he'd be used to seeing them soon enough. However, it was what they were trying to do that confused him all the more.

"M-Mr. Jones," One of them with short brown hair stammered, clearly embarrassed, "Mr. Jones, please get off the desk."

The man continued dancing, oblivious to the havoc he was causing around the room.

Noticing that this was going nowhere, another man spoke up, "Mr. Jones, we've talked about this before-" He was quickly interrupted by the perpetrator's enthusiastic and skull piercingly loud shouts.

"C'mon guys, dance with me! I need backup dancers!"

Annoyed at the whole situation, a stocky blonde woman barked back, "Mr. Jones, we've already discussed this. We won't be your back up dancers, now please get off the desk."

A plethora of other comments similar to her's followed quickly after, all intent on getting the dancing assailant off of the president's desk and to God knows where. Thoroughly befuddled by the whole situation, Barack turned to one of the guards by the door and asked him,

"Does this happen often?" Surprised with himself for not asking who the man was, or why he was there, he merely waited for the response of the guard, and was slightly startled when the man sighed with a world of weariness, before explaining,

"You'll get used to it."

And that was how the president became acquainted with the mystery called Alfred. F .Jones.