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Saturday Night Live sketches have for years lampooned standing presidents, and The West Wing offers a smart, sober version of the lives of an imaginary liberal president and his staff. But That's My Bush!, the belching evil twin of The West Wing, marks the first time anyone has made a standing president the centerpiece of a weekly episodic joke. The idea of the president and the first lady starring in their own cheesy sitcom is simple and pretty brilliant; and for better and worse, Stone and Parker stick close to formula. Although thus far the kids are missing--rumor has it that the creators' plan to bring in the first twins as wild lesbians was nixed by the network--the rest of the sitcom genre staples are there: a ditzy secretary, Princess, who can't tell the difference between a PalmPilot, a GameBoy, and a cheeseburger; the stuffy, villainous foil, here embodied by the realistically named Karl Rove; the sassy maid, Maggie; and the next-door neighbor, Larry, who pops in for a beer and chips and tells tacky jokes. The set is White-House-as-suburban-home. People drop by unexpectedly, watch television in the living room with their feet on the coffee table, and wander into the Oval Office.
Parker has said that he and Stone ordered how-to-write-a-sitcom books and went about cooking up paint-by-number plots and \"literally just plugging [the Bushes] in.\" George is always getting himself into trouble, as his home life conflicts with his role as leader of the free world; Laura is a neglected housewife who cleans up George's messes and often teaches him a thing or two. In the first episode, \"An Aborted Dinner Date,\" George accidentally schedules a \"super-important\" state dinner to unite abortion rights and pro-life advocates, for the same night he has promised Laura a special, intimate dinner. Being a bit of a wimp--or, as he puts it, \"a pussy\"--he cannot manage to postpone either one and winds up shuttling between the two, with zany results. In \"A Poorly Executed Plan,\" George's frat buddies take him up on his drunken college offer and move in (\"streaking through the White House and crapping in the Rose Garden,\" Laura complains). Meanwhile, Karl Rove has planned for the president to attend an execution and show everyone that he hasn't gone soft on capital punishment. Attempting to impress his old friends, George mistakenly invites them to the \"super-important\" execution. When Karl objects, George schedules a fake execution for their benefit--again, with zany results.
That goal is too easily achieved to be worth much. Old episodes of The Brady Bunch and The Bob Newhart Show and the rest of the Nick at Night clan by now work just fine as self-parodies. The commitment to mimicking the genre's predictable plot formulas, stock characters, and stilted artifice actually renders That's My Bush! considerably less funny than, say, South Park, in which the creators are free to feature such characters as Big Gay Al, baby-kicking children, a maniacal Barbra Streisand giant, a horny school chef, and talking poo. That's My Bush! is funniest when it shoots absurdly past its sitcom target. The pro-lifer, for instance, turns out to be a pint-sized, Chucky-like aborted fetus, ornery and blind and sporting a bad comb-over, who \"survived eating mice and ants\"--a hilarious, offensive jab at righteous defenders of the unborn that has no relation whatsoever to sitcom parody. When Karl Rove auditions an improvisational-comedy troupe to stage the mock execution, the digression into improv-comedy satire is funnier than any of the president-as-Mike-Brady routine. Desperate yet insanely confident, the troupe performs in the Oval Office. The improv leader shouts: \"Okay, we're in an execution, but Dave is singer-songwriter Meat Loaf, and Pam is deaf. Go!\"
Even if its creators don't realize or admit it, the show, too, is dumb like a fox. The sitcom-parody format gets its laughs not just from exaggerated homage but by hinting at a creepier, darker world lurking beneath the genre's chipper faces, snappy and sappy dialogue, kooky mix-ups, and sanitized sexuality. Laura's sing-songy, Donna Reedy complaint to Maggie that now that \"George is so busy being president, I feel like nobody pays attention to me\" gives way in a later scene to a lewd, horny-housewife plea to George to \"spread me out on that massive table, right under that big picture of Mr. Lincoln, and pound me.\" And the slapstick craziness of each episode results in edgy critique posing as good, clean apolitical fun. The improv troupe, unaware that one of their guys is about to die, camps it up in an execution chamber (\"Oh, that table is to die for!\"). Felix, the abortion-survivor pro-lifer, pounces on the face of his pro-choice opponent, who peels him off and flings him onto the Bush dog; screaming for help, he rides through the White House on the dog's back. That's My Bush! may not exactly speak truth to power, but it certainly farts in its general direction. 59ce067264
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