Who in God's name would want to have an actual beer with George W. Bush?
First of all, he'd be the guy who starts throwing peanuts at the young ladies at the next table. And then, when confronted by, say, the defensive tackle who is engaged to one of them, tells them that you did it. Then he sends a gag gift to you in the hospital.
He's the guy who makes up (at top volume) the stupid nicknames for everybody else at the table and then, in the cold light of an angry dawn, you discover that yours is the only one that stuck.
He's the guy who never drives. Or chips in for gas. He might be the guy who booted in the back seat, but he'll never admit it without DNA evidence.
He's the guy who you find on your couch in the morning, using your mint copy of Blonde On Blonde as a coaster and the afghan your grandmother smuggled out from under the Cossacks as a bib.
He's the guy who eats all the popcorn.
At some point in our lives, we've all had a beer with George W. Bush. We laugh about it now but, let’s be honest, we lost his phone number years ago. He's "That Guy." As in, "Whatever happened to That Guy who got the ribs dumped on his head by the football player?"
"I think he still owes me twenty bucks."
Yes - YES. He is THAT GUY.