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Laura Bush, Rastafarian
by Con Chapman

Jenna Bush let slip on The Oprah Winfrey Show that her mother is a "secret Rastafarian" who listens to Bob Marley around the house.

The New York Times Book Review

Another scorcher in Texas--in the 90's! Better turn on all three air conditioning zones to cool the house or George will have a conniption fit when he comes in from his bike ride.

Not a Burning Spear day, I need something mellower--Bob Marley. As Stevie Wonder put it in tautological terms in Master Blaster, "Marley's hot on the box, tonight there'll be a party on the corner at the end of the block." Duh--where else do you put a corner but at the end of the block? A little too much sensimilla fried his brain, which explains all his "throw your mother off the train a kiss" lyrics.

I wish George wouldn't obsess about his legacy so. He read an article the other day comparing him to James Buchanan. "That's not fair," he said. "Buchanan's been dead for a long time--he's had more time to become a bad president."

I looked him in the eye and leveled with him. "Dub," I said, “No woman, no cry.”

He gave me that wistful little-boy smirk that won the hearts of millions. "Maybe you're right," he said.

"You'd better believe it," I said. "All you got to do is oba-oba-serve thee hypocrites enjoy the freedoms you preserved but make snarky comments about you all the same." I don't like that word “snarky” but I picked it up from the girls.

Speaking of which, Jenna comes bounding down the stairs. "I'm going out mom," she says blithely. "Buh--

"Wait a minute young lady," I say sharply. "Not looking like that!"

"What's wrong with how I look?"

"I've told you a thousand times," I say through gritted teeth. "If you want to have nice-looking dreadlocks, you have to use a lot of cow dung on them."

"But mom!"

"No 'buts,' young lady. March!"

She makes her way back upstairs with that sullen attitude every mother of girls knows so well. I and I don't see eye to eye on some things, but I've told them--when you go out of our house, you represent the family, and I insist that you look nice.  Even if you smell like a feed lot.

Where is that man? I wish he'd take up a sport like racquet ball--fifty minutes and you’re done--so we could have a regular dinner schedule. Might as well fire up a spliff. Help me work up an appetite.

Ah--now that is one rude boy! A wave of contentment washes over me. Have to admit--for all George's whining, we don't have it too bad. A $7 million book contract for him, $2 mill for me. God’s in his heaven, and  . . .

Holy crap--I forgot. I've got Bible study group tonight. I've got to hide the pictures of Haile Selassie and replace them with Jesus!