(...and at least a few of you have...)
White House, a recent weekday morning. Oval Office. Preznit George is getting his daily briefing. He's got a bit of a morning head, but he's at least somewhat attentive.
Rove, today's first 60 milligrams of Vicodin masking the agony in his kidneys and giving him Dutch courage, decides it's time to break the Bad News:
"Mister Preznit, six Brazilian soldiers were killed last night, in fighting outside Najaf."
George feels a wave of nausea break over him. Adrenaline summons bile to his throat and a trickle of sweat begins to bead in the small of his back. "Aw, jeeze, Karl! That's awful! Just horrible news! Their poor mothers!"
He collapses on his desk, and appears to sob silently, his arms folded childlike around his head. An uncomfortable silence fills the room as the Inner Circle exchange nervous glances over their supine Commander in Chief.
The head suddenly pops up: "Hey! How many is in a Brazilian, anyway? Is that a lot?"