Delusions of Grandeur: What George W. Bush and Your Favourite Rapper Have in Common

A few years back, I attended the general meeting of one the student groups on the campus of my university. After the meeting, I stuck around for the requisite socializing that typically followed such events and in doing so, I happened upon a portly undergraduate who seemed to share my passion for rhyming. My mind started racing as we took turns lamenting the lack of lyricism in both the mainstream hip hop scene and the local hip hop community. You see, up until this point in my life, I had dabbled in rap, but was held back by a lack of friends who shared my interest and with whom I could trade rhymes and hone my craft. By meeting someone who was, at once, socially conscious, intelligent, and hooked on rhyming like I was, I would finally be able fill this void in my group of friends. The two of us agreed to walk down to his basement apartment where he had built a makeshift studio so that we could exchange rhymes over some beats that his boys had laid down several weeks prior. We were accompanied by a frosh girl, whom both of us had just met that day and who seemed eager to make new friends. Over the course of the 15 minute walk, our discussion continued and grew more and more lively. We talked mostly about how contemporary rappers had lost an appreciation for the lyrical nuance that had once made hip hop captivating. We both vowed that if either of us ever had the opportunity to put out an album, we’d help to bring the lyricism back to the rap game. I even considered suggesting that we spit a few bars while we walked just to warm up but decided instead to let the anticipation build.

His apartment was little more than an urban burrow carved into the back of a string of stoic, semi-detached houses that line the streets of Toronto’s downtown west end. He let us in through an unadorned, cast-iron door whose handle and, from what I could tell, keyhole were conspicuously absent. A long, dimly lit hallway, led into what had to be one of the most filthy apartments I had ever seen. Without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, he circumnavigated the still-moist patches of mud and dirty dishes strewn across the floor and proceeded to the bedroom where he had set up a mic-stand whose chord extended into the back of a PC. Before me and the young lady had even made it to our seats on the edge of the bed, we could hear a distorted, bass-heavy melody pounding from a set of PC speakers not nearly powerful enough to handle the load.

“Peep this track me and my bredrins recorded last week yo! Shit is fire!” he bellowed over the music.

I waited patiently through the obligatory pre-verse shout-outs on the recording. When he finally broke into rhyme, what I heard almost floored me. What I thought would be a display of lyrical mastery sounded more like a Saturday Night Live spoof! His rhyme pattern struggled to locate the beat like the flailing limbs of a blind man who’d dropped his cane. In what I can only presume was an attempt transform his voice into something more aggressive and edgy, he ended up sounding contrived and awkward. If I hadn’t heard him speak normally, I might have thought he suffered from a combination of severe nasal allergies and hypochondria. Surely this had to be a joke right? I panned my gaze nonchalantly towards him so as to avoid detection, praying for some indication that this was some kind of prank. But his facial expression betrayed only seriousness. With his eyes closed, he intensely mouthed each word as though he were performing for a stadium of thousands. Embarrassed for him, I turned my head and tried desperately to suppress the laughter that was slowly building up in my diaphragm. It was no use. But as I chuckled uncontrollably I was again surprised, this time even more so than before. My reaction had gone completely unnoticed. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see me, but rather it just hadn’t registered that I could possibly be laughing at his rhymes. This was a clear case of deluded rapper syndrome, and for the first time in my life, I was glad it had once again caught up with me.

In my estimation, rapping is one of a handful of occupations that is not only made easier by an inflated sense of ones ability, but it almost requires its practitioners to possess a deluded perception of their own skills. Given the gargantuan number of kids trying to get into the game nowadays and the tiny number of spots available, the risk of failure, even for the talented emcee, is nearly one hundred percent. In any major urban centre in North America, you can’t throw a stone without hitting the fitted-cap of an aspiring rapper, and this alone makes it nearly impossible to get discovered. Add to this the consequences of failure. Having dedicated the prime years of your life to the dream of hip hop stardom you could easily wake up one day as a thirty-something has-been with no job prospects, no practical skills and no credentials. In the worst case scenario you hang on long after any chance of success has faded and you end up as the laughing stock the youngsters you hope to appeal to as well as those in your own peer group. Anyone willing to take that gamble has to be utterly convinced that his or her skills are so exceptional that the odds simply don’t apply to them. They have to be delusional. And, as it turns out, hip hop isn’t the only arena where we encounter this phenomenon.

A similar effect can be found in the fight sports of boxing and mixed martial arts. If you’ve even seen a top fighter get knocked out, you’ve probably witnessed deluded fighter syndrome first hand. See if this sounds familiar. Two prizefighters square of in the ring in a fight that promises to be a true clash of titans with both fighters predicting absolute destruction of their opponent. However, as the action intensifies, it is becoming increasingly clear that one fighter is in way over his head and is being methodically picked apart. The fight culminates in a devastating blow that leaves one man sprawled out on the canvas with his mouthpiece somewhere in press row and saliva dripping from the golf ball-sized appendage that was once his lower lip. But when the vanquished fighter is revived and helped toward the centre of the ring for the post-fight interview, it’s as if he was in a totally different fight from the one you were watching. “I was never hurt! That was a lucky punch! I was executing my game plan! I could have continued! I want a rematch!” he yells defiantly. And you just want to yell at him through the screen, “Dude! You’re lucky to be alive right now. Shut up!” This is deluded fighter syndrome and like its hip hop analog, it’s a prerequisite for most fighters.

When one considers all the health risks involved in a career in fighting and the infinitesimal likelihood of making it big, one has to conclude that those who go into this profession believe whole-heartedly that they are the exception to the rule. Just look at the fates of some of boxing’s most unfortunate casualties. The list includes paralysis, the complete loss of ones mental faculties, blindness, deafness and death. Now add to that list the fact that all this will happen in front of a world-wide audience that could include, your wife, your parents, or your children. Even for those who manage to leave the ring with their health in tact, it’s hard to imagine a more emasculating scenario.

Psychologists have long been aware that we humans can’t be relied upon to give an objective appraisal of ourselves. Whether it’s anorexia, body dismorphic disorder, narcissism or megalomania, there’s something that causes otherwise rational and lucid people to completely disavow all sense of reason when they focus the lens on themselves. Perhaps the most vivid illustrations of this affliction, come from the world of politics, where delusions of grandeur can be both a gift and a curse.

On December 1, 2008, the outgoing United States president sat down with ABC News’ Charles Gibson for and interview in which the two men looked back and reflected on Bush’s eight years in the oval office. Not at all surprisingly, Bush offered a revisionist perspective on his tenure and, like he has done numerous times in the past, he acted as though the torrent of colossal failures that marred his presidency, either never happened or were totally out of his control.

For example, when asked if he felt in any way responsible for the economic crisis, Bush avoided giving a yes or no answer and instead he replied, “I think when the history of this period is written, people will realize a lot of the decisions that were made on Wall Street took place over a decade or so, before I arrived in President…” This response harkens back to a recurring theme among Bush and his loyalists. They believe that when the final chapters are written, history will be Bush’s vindicator, proving that he was right all along. In this sense, the guy reminds me of the serial rapist, who finds god in prison and manages to convince himself that an idyllic estate awaits him in the afterlife.

Unfortunately, however, this wasn’t the worst of it. When Gibson asked Bush what was his biggest regret, the lame duck president pondered for a few moments before responding. It was as though he was racking his brain trying to think a one regrettable decision he made. When he finally did come up with something, he said, "The biggest regret of all the presidency has to have been the intelligence failure in Iraq." And just when viewers were starting to get the sense that Bush was going to take at least partial responsibility for something, he offered this clarification. "I wish the intelligence had been different."

It was as though he hoped we’d forgotten about the plethora of intelligence experts who said the case for WMD was non-existent, or that those who did agree with Bush’s erroneous assertions about Saddam, had been pressured by Cheney’s henchmen to concoct evidence in order to build the case for going to war. These facts aren’t even controversial anymore. The truth is that when it comes to regrettable decisions and the disasters they precipitated, Bush has an extensive catalog from which to choose. Some of my favourites are the handling of Katrina, the financial meltdown, the mishandling of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the costly hands-off approach to environmental protection. Yet somehow all of these seemed to escape him.

Some people would explain all of this by saying that Bush is just a flat-out liar. And let’s be honest - when it comes to lying, Bush falls squarely in the pants-on-fire end of the spectrum. But I believe there’s more to it than that. The fact that Bush can look into the eyes of an interviewer and brazenly spew propaganda this demonstrably false, to me, indicates a distorted sense of reality. In this regard Bush is no pioneer. Nixon likely went to his grave thinking that Watergate was for the greater good of the American people, as did Reagan with respect to his involvement in the Iran-Contra affair.

The causes for the convergence of highly successful politicians and Bush-style delusion are two-fold. First off, given the gravity of the job and the potential for disaster, before someone could even think of running for president, that person has to view themselves as having once-in-a-generation talent, whether it is true or not. (And given the track records of past presidents, it’s usually not.) Just think about it. If Bush had to go to bed every night knowing that his actions led to the unnecessary deaths of 4000 American troops and up to one million Iraqis, he would have OD’d on Quaaludes along time ago. Add to that equation the fact that, worldwide, the number of people who hate his guts is easily in the hundreds of millions if not billions, and you begin to understand where this defense mechanism comes from.

This is why, when Charlie Gibson asked what he thought the American people felt about him, Bush said. “I hope they feel that this is a guy that came, didn't sell his soul for politics, had to make some tough decisions, and did so in a principled way.” The idea that Bush's persistent denial of culpability and consequent lack of remorse may be pathological, doesn’t make them any less infuriating. And for those who’ve lost loved ones in his meaningless wars, or lost their homes after Katrina, or lost their jobs because of the financial crisis, infuriating is surely an understatement. Fortunately for us we can all take solace in the fact that his days in public office are numbered and fortunately for him, if he needs a new hobby to pass the time, there are many other vocations where his delusionment would serve him well. But if it were up to me, he’d take up amateur boxing and stay as far away from microphones as possible.

IBF Flyweight champion Vic Darchinyan gets knocked the f$@# out by Nonito Donaire and then says he wasn't hurt!?!

AlexsJenkins