I had a dream last night that I met Donald Rumsfeld. He was by himself in this bar, and he looked so lonely. He kept looking around the room to see if he knew anyone, or if anyone recognized him.
I was on all fours on the floor doing an imitation of a dik-dik for my friends.
Of course, the Secretary of Defense saw me, and sauntered over, weaving a bit. He was drunk, and the malice he felt toward me was palpable. I thought for a moment he was going to take a swing at me. But I could tell that, though he despised me, he really just needed someone to talk to. France hated him. So did Germany. All the chicks in this bar thought he was a loser. We eventually became friends, and I convinced him to let inspections work.