Rhu
11 Jul 2008, 07:22 PM
My first thought on reading this:
The American leader, who has been condemned throughout his presidency for failing to tackle climate change, ended a private meeting with the words: "Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter."
He then punched the air while grinning widely, as the rest of those present including Gordon Brown and Nicolas Sarkozy looked on in shock.
and this:
Mr Bush also faced criticism at the summit after Silvio Berlusconi, the Italian Prime Minister, was described in the White House press pack given to journalists as one of the "most controversial leaders in the history of a country known for government corruption and vice".
The White House apologised for what it called "sloppy work" and said an official had simply lifted the characterisation from the internet without reading it.
[here] (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/2277298/President-George-Bush-%27Goodbye-from-the-world%27s-biggest-polluter%27.html)
Was... "What?!" and then, "What?!?!"
After talking about interrobanging everyone in the office, I chuckled, because a new image pooped into my head:
I'd walk up to the White House tomorrow afternoon and ring the doorbell. George would answer, grin at me, and say, "Hey! You got the stuff?"
I'd nod and smile stupidly, holding up some paper bags. He'd lean back after taking a whiff of their pungent contents, huff out a laugh, and tell me, "Heh. Let's set Congress on fahhr."
We'd scuttle across the national lawn in mid day, wearing ninja costumes and being flanked by Secret Service agents. People would stop their leisure activities and stare at us, stupefied. The crowds staring directly at us wouldn't convince us that we were being seen, though. We'd simply tiptoe between trees and scurry under cars as we make our way past the art galleries.
After a few minutes of impressively oblivious failures in stealth, we'd dash up the steps of the Capitol. In my fantasy, there are massive doors to the capitol steps and a giant, cylindrical red doorbell button, about six feet in diameter and protruding from the front of the capital like a giant nipple.
George and me light the bags and sprint across the lawn.
Hiding on the far side of the Washington Monument, there's a red, white, and blue cooler filled with a wide selection of shitty beers. George hurls a bottle of Miller Lite at me. I duck and it shatters on impact with the ground, spraying beer and shards of glass into the leg of a Secret Serviceman. The President giggles and tosses me a can of Coors Light instead, and we sit on the ground, leaning our backs against the monument.
We would talk about NASCAR until the sun sets, and only when the sky is orange and the shadows their longest does he notice the time. "Mah wahfe must be wurruhed sick!" he'd tell me, and then dash off in a waddling sprint back towards the white house, flailing his hands in the air as he runs, like an overgrown toddler grasping for his faraway mother.
The American leader, who has been condemned throughout his presidency for failing to tackle climate change, ended a private meeting with the words: "Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter."
He then punched the air while grinning widely, as the rest of those present including Gordon Brown and Nicolas Sarkozy looked on in shock.
and this:
Mr Bush also faced criticism at the summit after Silvio Berlusconi, the Italian Prime Minister, was described in the White House press pack given to journalists as one of the "most controversial leaders in the history of a country known for government corruption and vice".
The White House apologised for what it called "sloppy work" and said an official had simply lifted the characterisation from the internet without reading it.
[here] (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/2277298/President-George-Bush-%27Goodbye-from-the-world%27s-biggest-polluter%27.html)
Was... "What?!" and then, "What?!?!"
After talking about interrobanging everyone in the office, I chuckled, because a new image pooped into my head:
I'd walk up to the White House tomorrow afternoon and ring the doorbell. George would answer, grin at me, and say, "Hey! You got the stuff?"
I'd nod and smile stupidly, holding up some paper bags. He'd lean back after taking a whiff of their pungent contents, huff out a laugh, and tell me, "Heh. Let's set Congress on fahhr."
We'd scuttle across the national lawn in mid day, wearing ninja costumes and being flanked by Secret Service agents. People would stop their leisure activities and stare at us, stupefied. The crowds staring directly at us wouldn't convince us that we were being seen, though. We'd simply tiptoe between trees and scurry under cars as we make our way past the art galleries.
After a few minutes of impressively oblivious failures in stealth, we'd dash up the steps of the Capitol. In my fantasy, there are massive doors to the capitol steps and a giant, cylindrical red doorbell button, about six feet in diameter and protruding from the front of the capital like a giant nipple.
George and me light the bags and sprint across the lawn.
Hiding on the far side of the Washington Monument, there's a red, white, and blue cooler filled with a wide selection of shitty beers. George hurls a bottle of Miller Lite at me. I duck and it shatters on impact with the ground, spraying beer and shards of glass into the leg of a Secret Serviceman. The President giggles and tosses me a can of Coors Light instead, and we sit on the ground, leaning our backs against the monument.
We would talk about NASCAR until the sun sets, and only when the sky is orange and the shadows their longest does he notice the time. "Mah wahfe must be wurruhed sick!" he'd tell me, and then dash off in a waddling sprint back towards the white house, flailing his hands in the air as he runs, like an overgrown toddler grasping for his faraway mother.