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I was flying first class because I had just given one of my hilarious and well-received corporate speeches. Mrs. Bush had a window seat, so I was sitting directly across from a Secret Service man, who checked me out when I stood up to say hi. I gave him a smile that said, “Don’t worry, I’m all right.” See, I consider myself a people person, and I know how to handle myself. Anyway, I guess I checked out because he let me lean in and say, “Excuse me, Mrs. Bush. My name is Al Franken and I’m a friend of Dana Carvey’s.”

“Oh. Well, Dana’s a good man.” Yes, Dana is. Dana had done the hilarious, if at times somewhat unflattering, impression of Bush Sr. on Saturday Night Live. Quite generously, the Bushes had invited Dana to the White House after the 1992 election, and I knew they had gotten along famously. See? People person.

“I’ll bet Dana misses my husband,” she said with a wry smile.

“Yes. But I’m sure he’s working on your son,” I responded jauntily.

Her smile disappeared. “Well, I don’t know of any characteristics that he has that anyone could possibly make fun of.”

As it so happens, I had found a small Dubya quirk and decided it might be fun to show it to his mother. I was sure she’d get a kick out of it. “Well, when he laughs sometimes, his shoulders go up and down like this.” Then I did my little impression: Dubya laughing, “heh, heh, heh,” his shoulders shooting up and down.

Her face darkened noticeably. “I’ve never seen him do that.”

“Well, I’m sure Dana will do it better. And, of course, it’s going to be a very valuable impression,” I said. That lightened the moment. So much so, that I made what was, in retrospect, an unwise decision. I decided to kid. “You know, until November.”

A scowl flashed across her face. And, dismissing me with an imperious wave of her hand, she issued a stern “Well, I’m through with you!”

It was so over the top, I was convinced she was kidding.

“Oh, c’mon, I’m a Democrat,” I said, all in good fun.

“I gathered that. And I’m through with you!” Another wave of the hand.

Suddenly, I was dealing with the Queen of Hearts. But I honestly couldn’t tell whether she was being serious or just having a bit of fun—in which case, I would have been selling her short just to go back to my seat. So I tried again. “I was just kid—”

“I told you. I’m through with you.”

So I nodded and backed away, looking to the Secret Service man for some clue. She’s kidding, right? I got nothing from the guy. But they’re trained that way.

I spent the next couple of hours reliving the conversation, becoming more and more convinced that Mrs. Bush had the most fabulous sense of humor and the whole “I’m through with you” thing was just a hilarious bit of playacting. After dinner was served and cleared, I decided to try again.

“Here’s something you’ll like about me,” I said as I approached.

Which was met with a severe “I told you. I’m through with you.”

“Ah, yes. But I’m a friend of John Ellis.” (This was true, and, in retrospect, a little sad. You may remember John Ellis as the Bush relative who manned the Fox News Decision Desk on election night and called Florida for his first cousin. I had known John since his days as a political analyst at NBC, though I’ve lost touch with him since he helped steal the election for his family.)

“Well, John Ellis is a good man.”

We discussed Ellis for a couple of minutes. Then I took my leave before she was through with me. Success. I was back in Barbara Bush’s good graces.

After we landed and were getting our coats, I thought I’d take one last stab at jollying her up. Knowing that Mrs. Bush had always been a champion of literacy programs, I decided to brag on my daughter.

“Here’s another thing you’ll like about me,” I said, reaching into the overhead bin above her.

“I told you. I’m through with you.” Somehow, we had regressed.

“I know, I know. But my daughter teaches kids to read.”

“We can’t take credit for our children,” she scolded.

“We can’t? Sure we can. Look at you. You’ve got two governors.