Speaking of no such office actually existing...

Had a strange dream in the last hour of sleep this morning:  Playing an eight-on-eight pickup game of football with Bush & an unfamiliar bunch of rabble-rousers, on a large old forest-lined field beside a quiet two-lane road, a pond and fountains across the street.  We were younger…so probably this is around postgraduate age; the dream-state having broken down barriers of age and station for sake of twist & metaphor.  It was a good game, fun, like backyard football can be when everybody’s…just…playing…football.  …Anyway, afterwards, …some of us are sitting in a big hardwood booth beneath the early evening footfall outside dirty neon-lit windows, at some university Rathskellar, drinking cold draft and yuckin it up.  It’s good times all-round.  Bush is a likeable guy, not really mouthy or anything, just a word or two here & there and a chuckle or a belly laugh.  I mean, all is well:  The kind of atmosphere you wouldn’t mind revisiting.  Then…I feel a fuzzy fast fingertip across my back from lower spine to shoulder blade.  Hmmm…  …Then there it is again, creepy-crawly across my back; and this is not some nebulous notion, no, it’s a bug crawling on me, and I can tell it’s a spider by its method.  Then there’s another.  & suddenly everybody at the table is getting up and throwing off their shirts with spiders, little black jumping spiders, darting around.  All of us with spiders crawling on us, …except Dubya…who is still sitting there, elbows on the table, a John the Revelator grin on his face, holding an opened, emptied, candy tin and a small bottle of Ben’s Bug Juice.  …Wake-up.