By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
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?