In the dream I was somewhere with a group of people and we ran into GW. Bush, just sitting at a table in a snack bar.
We had a nice little chat and I decided that despite my opposition to his administration and the terrible things that happened around the occupation of Iraq that he was a nice guy and I wanted a photo. Got out my phone, but it wasn’t working. Someone else was going to take the photo, George posed with his arm around me, but somehow pushed me down so I appeared shorter than him. Their cameras also didn’t work.
I dig around my pockets and pull out a battered gold flip-phone I’d never seen before. George gives me a curious look and says, “Oh, that’s mine. I must have dropped it in your pocket.” We sit down in a booth, but yet again, even with all these people around, none of their phones work. Oh well, George goes off with a wave.
I get up and pick up my bag, but it’s being stepped on by a large brutal man who looks like the stereotypical Russian thug from an old Bond film. I ask him to get off my bag and he tells me with a throaty growl, “No. It’s mine. I found it.” About then, I woke up.