Jon de Vos: There is a series of moments and this is one of them: By George Bush |

Jon de Vos: There is a series of moments and this is one of them: By George Bush

Howdy, y’ all,

I’ll admit I’m a newbie to Facebook but I’ m gonna be honest with you, I need some new friends. My name is George Bush and things haven’t been going so swell for me lately. Get this ” a couple weeks ago, I read in the newspaper that I’m about to lose my job, and not only that, but in a couple of months I’m being evicted from my home.

On top of that, I’ve noticed that my old buddies aren’t coming around as much anymore. It’s like I’ve caught the plague but nobody wants to tell me. Oh, well, their loss.

Let me tell you a bit about myself. I was born a Connecticut Yankee on July 6, 1946, knowing right off that I would someday be President of the United States. I was planning on being born on the Fourth of July, but I lost my way in the dark and took a couple extra turns. Starting kindergarten, I learned that crude oil was selling for $18 dollars a barrel. Right then and there, I swore I’d devote my life to the cause of doing everything in Daddy’s power to improve the lives of the children and other offspring of starving Texas oilmen.

Yale was a piece of cake. I was so good at the learning part, my instructors hardly bothered to take attendance. I majored in history with a minor in the legacy program. It was hard work, I tell you, hard work, reading all those facts, all those historical-type facts. I never lost faith in myself though and if I ever ran into a teacher that did, I’d take a deep breath and look them right square in the eye and say, “My Daddy is the head of the CIA and I can make you disappear.”

Even with the hard work, I made sure I always recreated. For instance, I was the head clapper in the rock-group, Torqueys, the Senior Class Band. See, a clapper isn’t like a guitar player or anything like that, without me clapping my fool head off, those guys would have never kept the beat. That’s the one thing I’ ll never forget about my time at Yale ” how sore my hands were.

My job as president was hard work, always having dinner with people whose names were impossible to remember, let alone pronounce. It’s hard work talking to every Tom, Dick and Habib from Iraq, Iran and Constantinople, wherever. I remember one time I was talking to that Muslin guy, Mohamed Amajinidoodad, or whatever his name is, and the subject of mullahs came up. I thought a mullah was that spicy Italian dish with meatballs, so I said, “Let’s eat one.” I could see it startled everybody, but then Jinidoodad grinned and slapped me on the back and we had a grand old time.

And signing things. Good Lord a’ mighty, a president is always signing some little piece of paper. A little piece of paper here and a little piece of paper there, here a paper, there a paper, everywh . . . where was I? Oh yeah, did I mention I was head cheerleader for the Yale Stickball team? More than anything else I ever learned, that prepared me for running the country.

And speechifying! Lordie, Lordie, how I hated speeches. Lucky for me, big presidents get big staff. One guy wrote the words and another helped me pronunciate the hard ones. I even had one of them MD types to fill me up with farmasut. . . pharmasootic. . . feel-good pills so I didn’ t look like a cross-eyed deer in the headlights. It’s hard work not looking cross-eyed, reading them words on a screen so it looks like I’m making it up. The words were even spelled out fonietic. . . fonatical. . . foenetical. . . dang, there’s another one.

I wonder if Mr. Rogers is still in his neighborhood. Maybe he’d be my friend. We could read passages from “My Pet Goat” to each other.

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