Vexed in the city

Americans are always searching for role models. We are never satisfied with self-assessment, but must constantly base our self-worth on the opinions of outsiders or attempt to emulate the meritorious actions of others. Everyone is guilty of a little mimicry. Freshmen can be seen daily paying homage to Somalian superstars, sporting Aguilerra-esque sunken eye sockets and her trademark butt floss, and copying their favorite morning-time matron, Aunt Jemima, with their overly sweet syrupy centers.

Ask any girl and she will tell you that she has observed the majority of guys impersonating a piece of food stuck between your teeth; it annoys you to death but you just have to get it. Every one has had at least one professor who is obviously impersonating their favorite fascist dictator, or one who prefers to copy the habits of less animate objects, such as a broom, Jell-O mold or decomposing corpse.

I have my own hero, that person who I look up to and try in every way to resemble. And while most of my efforts to do this have made me take on the appearance of and ugly, stunted chimp, a lot of people have told me that I am doing a good job to look like my idol, George W. Bush

I have narrowed down a list of five methods of how our president comports himself, taken these and applied them to the context of my life. First, always advocate a preemptive strike. I have followed this mandate regarding my nemesis, the “evil ones” – backless shirts. Backless shirts are perhaps the worst holdover from the last millennium, a sad fleeting fancy that should have been relegated to grow mold in the back of the closet along with pogs and anything from the Gap.

In reality they are no more than glorified boob-aprons, mammary smocks that provide no support, functionality or fashionability, and do nothing more than serve as a sign over the head of the wearer reading,
“Attention all, I am cheaper than J Street sushi.” Thus, in accordance
with the way Designated Under Master Bush, or D.U.M.B. as I have named all Bushy actions, I implement a preemptive strike against all cheese-ball wearers of breast-bibs.

If they seem trashy enough – teased hair, few teeth and the tendency to refer to their brothers as “Dad” on parents day – to potentially regard the backless shirt as high fashion, I launch a preemptive strike. In this case, a “preemptive sneer,” hoping that my efforts will ward off future attacks of bad taste and back flab. This also works when I eat dinner and have ice cream as an appetizer. I am merely launching a preemptive dessert. On dates when I run screaming about 10 minutes into the evening, it is merely a preemptive action anticipating the inevitable.

Another D.U.M.B. method explains away my utter stupidity as an effort to show that I am a woman of the people, not lording intelligence over my fellow human. So, when in algebra my professor asks for the Pythagorean Theorem and I respond, “noodle,” I am merely communing with society. This is also a good method for explaining any strange habits one may have to one’s parents – I have found it particularly useful when used to validate eating out of trashcans, joining a sorority or going to see Recess.

Lastly and perhaps most importantly, a gift that D.U.M.B. has given us is
the ability to be proud of our youthful indiscretions. According to our leader, Grand High Priest Bush, who rose “high” into his office, drugs are not fun – they are an integral part of resume building.

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