R. Kelly no longer has the monopoly on being trapped in closets. (Photo by Larry Busacca/Getty Images) (Larry Busacca/GETTY IMAGES)

Whatever you think about the size of this story, I think it needs to be said in verse.

Here’s how I assume it went down, in the style of R. Kelly, an expert on being trapped in closets:

Wednesday in the morning and the rays from the sun wake me

I’m stretching and walking to a house that don’t belong to me

It belongs to Alan Ginsburg (the rich guy and not the poet)

And when I walk in they say, “Hey, buster, don’t you know it

Isn’t right for you to talk to people up in here?

Just hop into this storage space and don’t you try to come near.”

They stretched their hands in front of me

Said, “You can’t go this way!”

Looked at them like they was crazy

Said, “Please move out my way!”

I said, “I got a paper at home.”

They said “Please don’t go out there!”

“Listen, I’ve got an editor to please.”

They said the party was coming up the stairs

“Quiet, hurry up and get in the closet!”

They said, “Don’t you make a sound or some storage is going down.”

I said, “Why can’t I just sit out there with you?”

“Yes, except for one thing, no one talks to guests!”

Think, think… “Quick, put me in the closet!”

And now I’m in this windowed closet trying to figure out

Just how I’m gonna get my crazy act out this house

And I text a picture to my editor and he blogs about it

And then the Drudge Report gets in the act to shout it

And Biden walks in and yells “I’m home!”

I says, “Honey I’m in the room.”

Then this goes on for twenty-one more parts and there are midgets and it turns out that Joe Biden was the traffic cop all along.