After the Election
Warning: This article was to have run last Wednesday, but as many people inexplicably decided to have opinions, some of which were wretchedly incorrect, i.e., "Bush would be a great president" -- my column today will be riddled with anachronisms. True, I could correct tenses and edit but there exist circumstances beyond my control, i.e., a life-threatening condition called apathy and raspberry-flavored Stoli.
I am never one to speak about politics, but in order to alienate as many readers as possible, I thought the most efficacious course of action would be to bash Bush. (Note the alliteration. Or, in Bush-ese, "alliterationable".) I could explain how a lying, thieving, seven-deadly-sinful, Machiavelli of a man is infinitely preferable to a moron. I suppose I could rant about how horrified I was to read an op-ed article that explained that discretion is preferable to intelligence in a President. But I shan't. Verily, verily, this election was not about the MORE INTELLIGENT of two men.
There is no comparison. It was not about Smart and Smarter. Rather, it was whether America could refrain from picking a man who'd have to have to use his last lifeline to have a rat's ass chance at identifying India on a map.
Since I'm writing this article prior to the culmination of the tallying of votes (as of Nov. 8, the re-tallying of votes), perhaps I should be referring to him as "President Bush." Why? Two reasons:
Excepting the intervention of God (and, of course, She probably has better things to do), a stupid country will most likely elect a stupid man.
After the infinite amusement of the Monica Lewinsky debacle, how can we possibly refrain from voting for drum roll, please Bush and Dick?
On to more important things. But first, a brief acknowledgement of the fact that the photo up there makes me look like I either have the mumps or am the result of several generations of in-breeding. I think it has something to do with pixels. (Subtle hint to the powers that be to use a better photo -- haha, who am I kidding, my mother and I are the only ones who read this column.)
Now that I've unleashed this unmitigated force of pomposity (see above) that has heretofore merely lurked in the shadows of my writing, I'll continue along the same lines. I believe that I'll write about something that is "Very Important In My Life" -- because, of course, what is "Very Important In My Life" is "Of Preeminent Concern To You."
As a prospective Creative Writing English Major, it behooves me to take English classes (gasp) and consequently, to write analytical papers for the rest of my college career. Although the ability to write is probably a skill one would assume incoming Dartmouth students to have already acquired in high school, it is not the case with me. At "The Greatest High School in the United States, and probably, the World," I learned that Standardized Tests are the solution to all of humanity's ills and that papers are "A Blight on the Face of this Earth" and "The Mother of Prostitutes and of the Abominations of the Earth."
A direct quote from a paper of mine:
Hamlet is like, a sad man/prince, you know? And things aren't so hot for him when Puck makes him fall in love with Hermia instead of with Helena. He has many problems and therefore, had to die, crying, "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" (In my own experience, I have never ridden a horse. Moped, yes. Horse, no.) Sweet, eh?
I've had some difficulty adjusting to the rigors of Dartmouth academia.
Luckily, I have discovered the Composition Center, located on the first-and-a-half floor of Sanborn. It is here, once revived from the shocking odor of death and decay that pervades, that I have begun my journey towards some form of cogent writing.
Some final thoughts: the Composition Center is better than a frat party and Bush must die! (Am I allowed to say this? In the event that Bush wins and his Supreme Court justices overturn all our constitutional rights: Haha, I am just kidding. Haha. I love Bush.)