Now that John Bolton has been installed as United Nations ambassador -- by the time-honored recess appointment or the power-crazed overreach of King Emperor Bush Fuhrer, depending on your point of view -- one can only wonder how he'll do. Here's a hypothetical workday. (Note that he's made it out of Washington without some senators throwing themselves on the train tracks to keep him from leaving. Or, rather, having aides throw themselves on the tracks. Make that interns. Aides might say things under anesthesia.) Anyway. The limo pulls up to the glistening U.N. building at 7:59 a.m.

There are, of course, protesters. They chant: "Hey hey! Ho ho! Bolton John has got to go! Hey hey! Ho ho!" But Bolton strides right through the crowd and enters the building, leaving the protesters stunned: It didn't work! The chant didn't work! Frantic calls are placed to ANSWER, CORE, ACORN, NARAL and the National Guild of Pronounceable Acronyms (NGPA); the leadership is informed that the magic chant has failed. Lucifer has entered the temple! Repeat, Lucifer is in the temple! Call George Soros and have him fund a new one STAT! No, that doesn't stand for anything.

8:03 -- Security makes Bolton go through the metal detector six times, convinced he's hiding brass knuckles somewhere. He leaves, grasping the detachable metal handle of his briefcase, smiling privately.

8:15 -- Bolton, who once remarked that you could remove the top 10 floors of the U.N. without diminishing its effectiveness, notes with rue how long the elevator takes to get to his office. He arrives. Superglue in the keyhole again, just like at State.

Noon -- Bolton presents his credentials to Kofi Annan, who is sweating and nervous. The lunch is amiable until Bolton, his hand still aching from a vigorous game of handball, makes a fist and cracks his knuckles, whereupon Annan takes a stack of papers from his desk, stammers that it has all the details on the oil-for-food scandal, and begs not to be put in a cell next to his son. "He snores," Annan begs.

3:17 p.m. -- The afternoon sun is getting hot; Bolton discovers the shade is stuck. He calls building services. He is informed that the shade has been stuck since 1966, that the U.N. Commission on Window Treatments was convened in 1967 to address the matter, and is scheduled to meet again in 2006, once India withdraws its objections to giving the rotating chairmanship to Yemen -- as one of the founding countries, it has the right to the chair, but when the nation split in two its claim to the chair was remanded to a subcommittee, which went on a fact-finding mission to a French drape manufacturer and never reported back aside from annual expense accounts from a beach house in the south. The Plenary Commission on International Shade Accords, a separate body, has recommended that any action on drapes or curtains be postponed until the U.N. building is renovated, or that a large movable curtain be erected across the street to block the sun, but this debate has been stalled over an amendment condemning Israel's treatment of Venetian blinds in the Gaza Strip. Of course, now that Israel has begun withdrawal from ...

3:24 -- Bolton hangs up, cuts the cord, and the shade comes down.

4:07 -- At the cafeteria, Bolton gets a doughnut and a cup of coffee; the cashier informs him she'll put it on the U.S. tab. Bolton insists on paying himself; she shrugs and asks for $428.26.

5:00 -- As the workday ends, Bolton looks outside and sees a crowd waiting to protest his exit. What disguise to use? The Saddam costume? No, they'd want autographs, and besides, that mustache dye takes a day to wash out. The Osama outfit? What, and get kissed to death by the Iranian delegation? No. Let's see ... perfect disguise. But alas: Everyone says, "G'night, John." "See you tomorrow, Mr. Bolton." How could they see through the helmet?

Apparently it's not enough to look like Darth Vader. You have to act like him, too.

It's what they expect. Might as well give it to them.