A few months before The Miss America pageant, Rush Limbaugh put on his favorite velour track suit, slicked some Vaseline on his front teeth, and drove to the local shopping center for a nice, long, relaxing round of mall-walking. Passing the food court, the scent of Aunt Annie's Pretzels was so thick in the air it was like a stick of butter shoved in each nostril. Rush breathed deeply and thought, "This is the life: Extremely light exercise. A mall. None of those flying liberal gargoyles attacking me from all angles. Butter-smell."
But a few minutes later, when he was rounding the corner by the Hammacher Schlammacher to complete his second circuit, Rush (and only Rush) saw them: A swarm of vicious, flying, liberal gargoyles. Within seconds Rush was swatting furiously at the air, punching wildly, flailing his arms like a drowning man. "Help! Help!" he yelled, but no one wanted to go anywhere near the old man in the velour suit who was angrily punching all the air around him in a two foot radius. Then, with no explanation, Rush simply stopped. The imaginary attack was apparently over. Rush very calmly walked over to a bench and sat down, his back straight, his feet crossed in proper fashion, at the ankles.
At that precise moment, the head of the Miss America Pageant—who had been watching Rush's rage attack through the window of a Baby Gap—walked over. "Hey, kid, how'd you like to be a star?" he asked Rush. "Well, that can't happen. But what if you could judge the Miss America pageant instead? Looks like you know a lot about poise."
And so, Rush Limbaugh and his many hallucinations became a Miss America judge.
Either that, or Rush won the honor in a dance-off. His opponent? Dignity.