If the G8 Summit were an Adidas ad . . .

Now that news agencies are going for more than just the shit, it's amusing how much their attempt to transcribe the entire tete-à-tete between Bush and Blair resembles my recent series of posts in which I attempted to translate the Jose + 10 ads.

In this scenario -- the G8 as World Cup, or, perhaps more aptly in Dubya's case, a fantasy match he plays with and against the world's biggest players -- I cast Blair as the stern Jose, and Bush as the jocular Pedro (aka Gordito).

Now reimagine the conversation . . .

From the selection of players:

Bush: Putin! (Vladimir Putin, of Russia, late of the KGB Squad)

Blair: Harper! (Stephen Harper, of Canada, of the Calgary Southwest)

Bush: Juni! (Junichiro Koizumi, of Japan's Liberal Democratic Party; we'll assign Koizumi the Brazilian mononym; I think Dubya would)

Blair: Prodi! (Romano Prodi, of Italy's l'Unione, who recently edged out Silvio Berlusconi for a place on the team)

Bush: Thatcher!

Blair: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

(but you never know: like Beckenbauer, the Iron Lady herself just might turn up. . .)

And then the game itself:

Blair: (nudging Germany's Chancellor Angela Merkal aside) Pita! (Pardon me, Angela, but I believe the bell has rung for dinner)

Bush: Vengamos! Come! (Come on! Eat!)

Blair: Aqui, Harper! (If you could be so kind, Stephen, to pass me the salt)

Harper crosses the salt over to Blair.

Bush: Oye, Putin! (Yo, Vladster!) as he directs the Russian President's attention to the rapidly advancing Harper. Putin tackles -- okay, shoots -- him; Harper falls to the ground and considers it a foul. Putin responds with a clipped Sorry! and carries on to attempt to deliver it to Bush, but drops it.

Bush: Tu, al banquillo! (You, to the bench!) Condi, ven! (Condi, come! He calls in US Secretary of State, Condoleeza Rice, from the bench)

Meanwhile, Merkel has collected the salt and attempts to deliver it, but falls short of the mark, complaining about the lack of coalition support. Kofi Annan, on the sidelines, raises a flag. Unfazed, Bush hollers, "GOOOOLLLL!!" (Mission accomplished!), and runs triumphantly around the room, arms in the air, while Blair and Merkel argue over whether in fact the salt reached the table.

They are still arguing over the table when George Bush, Sr., emerges, having just vomited.

Papa: Junior!

Bush: Que? (What?)

Papa: A casa! (Come home!)

Bush: Shit!

Bush reluctantly exits his fantasy, as James Baker and Brent Scowcroft suddenly appear to escort him home.


Impossible is nothing.