I was driving along today, on the way home from one of my jobs, minding my own business and thinking selfish thoughts about how in the world my wife and I were going to possibly survive on our three meager incomes (my wife works full-time as a registered nurse, and I am a speech pathologist by day and an English tutor on weekends) when I had the good fortune to witness a large, red Dodge pickup truck dash in front of me from the next lane. It was a Dodge Ram, and it was taking all the liberties of it's trademarked name to butt into traffic in front of me. As the driver slammed on his brakes and skidded to a stop, not two seconds after merging lanes, causing me (and at least two cars behind me) to likewise slam on our brakes, I saw that the brake light that was installed in his rear window above the truck bed was shaped into the letters U-S-A, and it lit up wonderfully in proud, defiant, bold red glory for all the world to see each time the driver tapped his impatient, American, undoubtedly boot-clad foot on the brake pedal. It was as though he were defying all of creation to “Mess With Texas,” as it were. As though he were shaking his fist in every terrorists face and shouting “USA! USA!” each time he screeched to a halt in front of an unenlightened schmuck like myself.
As I watched this model citizen pull away from me at top speed and weave his way in and out of traffic, his USA emblem periodically lighting up, first a fiery red as he plowed past an unsuspecting foreign make, then a soft glow as he sped by a school bus, and finally just a memory as he disappeared around a minivan onto a freeway entrance ramp, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of shame. I suddenly felt inadequate as an American. How could I not? My brake lights were nothing more than an ordinary, unpatriotic pair of oval shaped bulbs affixed in a decidedly un-American place – the back end of the car, on either side of the trunk. My brake lights don't spell out any words or acronyms. They are not placed in a bold position in my rear window. In short, they were practically anti-American. How would the world ever know my true feelings toward this great land with brake lights like these?
I drove along dejectedly for a while longer, my jobs forgotten, my wife assuming recreant status in my mind as I recalled how she had conspired and cajoled me into purchasing this worthless vehicle with it's terrorist brake lights. I wanted to drive it into an underpass or off of a bridge and destroy every last trace of this traitor, this Judas that paraded around as my “transportation,” this Benedict Arnold that disguised itself as my “wheels,” my “ride.” I was on the brink of despair when I suddenly recalled the shining, glistening face of our glorious leader George W. Bush, Jr. That wonderful, completely expressionless face, with those dark, mysterious eyes that only hint at the vacuity that lies behind them. As I recalled His other-wordly visage, I suddenly thought to myself, “What would George do?”
And folks, that's when it came to me. George would spend the money to “patriocize” his vehicle. He would turn to Laura with that terrific way he has of squinting hard and looking as though he is recovering from a traumatic brain injury, and he would say, “Laura, the heck with it, we're going to . . . uh . . . well, what I mean is . . . er . . . we're not going to let them push us around any longer. They've, you know, they've awakened a . . . uh . . . a sleeping something or other, like, and we're going out for ribs. I mean it. We're going to . . . um . . . hunt them down . . yes, we'll hunt them down and eat them, tonight, and Dick and Lynne are not invited.” And Laura would know exactly what he meant, and in no time their presidential limo would be souped up with all the patriotism one car can handle. They'd have the flag on the rear windshield, the USA brake lights, the “Power of Pride” bumper stickers, the whole nine yards and damn the cost. And why not? It would be great for the economy! It would be business as usual for a man who spends $250,000 on his re-election campaign. At the very least, he could write off the whole thing on an expense account and give the American tax-payers the opportunity to finance this outstanding act of patriotism. After all, it would not be for his own benefit, mind you, but for the good of the American people.
As soon as all of this sunk into my propaganda-battered brain, I realized what I had to do. My family and my responsibilities forgotten, I raced over to an auto-body shop (I of course made sure they had plenty of American flags flapping around the place and plenty of broken down American cars in the repair lot), and ordered a complete make over for my car. I got an American flag on the back and a Confederate flag on the roof (just to make sure any aerial attacker could see that I wouldn't stand for any funny business). I had a tiny flag put on the antenna (so oncoming traffic would know exactly which country I support when I'm driving), and I directed the mechanic to remove all the un-American stations from my preset radio dial. In short, I ordered “the works,” patriotically speaking. I wanted to do it the way I thought George would have done it: costly and drawn out, and without the support of my friends. The auto body shop told me it would cost about $3500 and take two to three months, but of course I told my wife it would only cost $150 and take less than a week. Why should she have to worry about the details? I knew George would approve. After all, it was only a small price to pay to hold on to my sanity for one more day (and probably not much longer).
So, George, if you're reading this (or having it read to you, slowly), I just want to say, “Thanks, George, for opening my eyes.” George, if it wasn't for your exemplary (although somewhat abstruse) leadership skills, coupled with your complete lack of insight regarding public and foreign policy matters, then millions of Americans like me wouldn't be able to say, “This is why I like George Bush, and this is how I was able to follow his example.” Thank you for showing us, the American public, that it is possible to live life to the fullest through a pattern of selfishness, isolationism, and a complete lack of accountability.

Why I Like Bush

I was driving along today, on the way home from one of my jobs, minding my own business and thinking selfish thoughts about how in the world my wife and I were going to possibly survive on our three meager incomes (my wife works full-time as a registered nurse, and I am a speech pathologist by day and an English tutor on weekends) when I had the good fortune to witness a large, red Dodge pickup truck dash in front of me from the next lane. It was a Dodge Ram, and it was taking all the liberties of it's trademarked name to butt into traffic in front of me. As the driver slammed on his brakes and skidded to a stop, not two seconds after merging lanes, causing me (and at least two cars behind me) to likewise slam on our brakes, I saw that the brake light that was installed in his rear window above the truck bed was shaped into the letters U-S-A, and it lit up wonderfully in proud, defiant, bold red glory for all the world to see each time the driver tapped his impatient, American, undoubtedly boot-clad foot on the brake pedal. It was as though he were defying all of creation to “Mess With Texas,” as it were. As though he were shaking his fist in every terrorists face and shouting “USA! USA!” each time he screeched to a halt in front of an unenlightened schmuck like myself.
As I watched this model citizen pull away from me at top speed and weave his way in and out of traffic, his USA emblem periodically lighting up, first a fiery red as he plowed past an unsuspecting foreign make, then a soft glow as he sped by a school bus, and finally just a memory as he disappeared around a minivan onto a freeway entrance ramp, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of shame. I suddenly felt inadequate as an American. How could I not? My brake lights were nothing more than an ordinary, unpatriotic pair of oval shaped bulbs affixed in a decidedly un-American place – the back end of the car, on either side of the trunk. My brake lights don't spell out any words or acronyms. They are not placed in a bold position in my rear window. In short, they were practically anti-American. How would the world ever know my true feelings toward this great land with brake lights like these?
I drove along dejectedly for a while longer, my jobs forgotten, my wife assuming recreant status in my mind as I recalled how she had conspired and cajoled me into purchasing this worthless vehicle with it's terrorist brake lights. I wanted to drive it into an underpass or off of a bridge and destroy every last trace of this traitor, this Judas that paraded around as my “transportation,” this Benedict Arnold that disguised itself as my “wheels,” my “ride.” I was on the brink of despair when I suddenly recalled the shining, glistening face of our glorious leader George W. Bush, Jr. That wonderful, completely expressionless face, with those dark, mysterious eyes that only hint at the vacuity that lies behind them. As I recalled His other-wordly visage, I suddenly thought to myself, “What would George do?”
And folks, that's when it came to me. George would spend the money to “patriocize” his vehicle. He would turn to Laura with that terrific way he has of squinting hard and looking as though he is recovering from a traumatic brain injury, and he would say, “Laura, the heck with it, we're going to . . . uh . . . well, what I mean is . . . er . . . we're not going to let them push us around any longer. They've, you know, they've awakened a . . . uh . . . a sleeping something or other, like, and we're going out for ribs. I mean it. We're going to . . . um . . . hunt them down . . yes, we'll hunt them down and eat them, tonight, and Dick and Lynne are not invited.” And Laura would know exactly what he meant, and in no time their presidential limo would be souped up with all the patriotism one car can handle. They'd have the flag on the rear windshield, the USA brake lights, the “Power of Pride” bumper stickers, the whole nine yards and damn the cost. And why not? It would be great for the economy! It would be business as usual for a man who spends $250,000 on his re-election campaign. At the very least, he could write off the whole thing on an expense account and give the American tax-payers the opportunity to finance this outstanding act of patriotism. After all, it would not be for his own benefit, mind you, but for the good of the American people.
As soon as all of this sunk into my propaganda-battered brain, I realized what I had to do. My family and my responsibilities forgotten, I raced over to an auto-body shop (I of course made sure they had plenty of American flags flapping around the place and plenty of broken down American cars in the repair lot), and ordered a complete make over for my car. I got an American flag on the back and a Confederate flag on the roof (just to make sure any aerial attacker could see that I wouldn't stand for any funny business). I had a tiny flag put on the antenna (so oncoming traffic would know exactly which country I support when I'm driving), and I directed the mechanic to remove all the un-American stations from my preset radio dial. In short, I ordered “the works,” patriotically speaking. I wanted to do it the way I thought George would have done it: costly and drawn out, and without the support of my friends. The auto body shop told me it would cost about $3500 and take two to three months, but of course I told my wife it would only cost $150 and take less than a week. Why should she have to worry about the details? I knew George would approve. After all, it was only a small price to pay to hold on to my sanity for one more day (and probably not much longer).
So, George, if you're reading this (or having it read to you, slowly), I just want to say, “Thanks, George, for opening my eyes.” George, if it wasn't for your exemplary (although somewhat abstruse) leadership skills, coupled with your complete lack of insight regarding public and foreign policy matters, then millions of Americans like me wouldn't be able to say, “This is why I like George Bush, and this is how I was able to follow his example.” Thank you for showing us, the American public, that it is possible to live life to the fullest through a pattern of selfishness, isolationism, and a complete lack of accountability.