Illustration by Bob AulHey, sister! You're 10 years younger than I and working for the president of the United States. Could I be prouder? My cup of pride ran over when you returned home last Fourth of July, but by then—a few months into your White House job—your newfound right-wing attitude had transformed you into a Stepford Slave for Uncle Sam, complete with holier-than-thou prejudices. It was all a little hard to take when I got the call to come get you from our favorite bar, where you had gotten hammered and were singing "Yankee Doodle Dandy" to about a dozen drunken Neanderthals who molested you and your useless whore friend between periodic power pukes in the parking lot. I would relish such displays of sloppiness in other obnoxious, high-profile folks, but you're my sister.
I'm sure that in button-down D.C., your bravado seems like a tawdry-yet-playful episode of whichever Sex and the Single Shesitcom is the Must See of the Moment. But here in the media footprint of mighty Los Angeles, your rhythmic-yet-halting gyrations seemed spring breakish.
So when you returned home this past weekend and performed Sister Act II at the same bar, I—your eldest sister—considered teaching you a much-needed lesson in humility. But no: I hauled your power-suited, scrawny, filth-spattered butt to the aforementioned whore's beachfront so you could shit, shower and shine for your 3 p.m. pow-wow with Dubya and a Secret Service crew aboard Air Force One. And I'm the fucking black sheep of this Conservative American Tragedy?