Rum tum tigger

I don't know what I'll do for nightmares when Donald Rumsfeld is no longer on the political scene. So far I've had the following dreams about him:

1. I was playing soccer against the execrable John Bolton when Rummy streaked across the field dressed in a girl's field hockey outfit. . . . with a little plaid skirt and everything.

2. I removed the lid of a cookie jar shaped like a leering panda because I heard a baby crying inside it--only to have Donald Rumsfeld's head on a jack-in-the-box spring yayo up in my face.

3. Donald Rumsfeld was locked in my bathroom and he wouldn't come out until I had George Bush over, which is something I (dream I and real I) would never ever do. So the dream consisted of me trying to figure out what to do about the bathroom: and then things got all Edgar Allen Poe and I won't go on about THAT.

4. Rumsfield was my writing partner and we were trying to come up with a winning campaign for something called Polly's Perfect Potato Buns. It was right out of Bewitched--he was Larry and I was Derwood. And he wouldn't stop staying "potato buns" over and over and over until I woke up sweating and sick and surely unable to eat either potatoes or buns (or say either word) maybe ever again.

I think four dreams about Donald Rumsfeld is enough for anyone, let alone a lefty Canadian girl who doesn't even play field hockey.