My Fellow Americans:
Let me begin this diatribe by admitting that I am:
a) a dick
b) a snob
c) occasionally guilty of the things I’m about to accuse you of.
That’s fine; I can take the hypocrisy because I’m a dick, and I can take being a dick because I’m a hypocrite. But that doesn’t stop the fact that you people are icky, and getting ickier by the minute.
Do I lump my friends and family in there? Why of course not. Y’all get a pass. Because I’m not just a dick, I’m also exclusionary. Some people call that loyalty, other call it a cheap way to make broad generalizations without pissing everyone off.
That’s fine too. As my brother Sean likes to tell me, just admitting that you’re a dick/snob doesn’t give you a free pass to being a dick/snob. And so I am paying for this pass with your disapproval; I do not expect it to be free.
But my fellow Americans, you are fat and you smell bad. You dress like shit, and I would say you have no self-respect, but the reality is you may have too much. Why have you stopped caring what the world thinks? It’s as though many of you hit 40 and completely ceased giving a shit.
I’m here to say that I care. I haven’t given up on you yet, so please give up on that Tampa Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt. Men, why do you constantly wear clothes that turn your massive bodies into corporate advertisements? The only writing that should ever be on a shirt involves either irony or your favorite sports team. At least a Celtics jersey conjures up an emotional allegiance – being a commercial for Hollister just conjures up the end of creativity.
One more thing, guys: I don’t care how hot it is. I don’t deserve to be subject to your toes.
Look, I’m not perfect. I have bad skin, skate shoes, and god knows my BMI isn’t going to inspire a nation to conquer the fuckin’ triathlon. But for the love of god, if your love handles are going to spill over the armrest and into my airplane seat, I would like you to pay for the part of my seat that I’m unable to use. On this particular flight home from Hawaii, that accounted for about one-fifth.
I’m not saying this because it makes me miserable, which it does. I’m saying it because you look like you’re miserable, a nation of humongous automatons walking around with dreadful haircuts, cutting in line at Burger King, always bothered, always one item shy of what you were supposed to be at for on with.
Stop barking at me. Stop yelling at your kids. Quit pushing me into the fucking tram! I get it, there’s too many of us. My wife and I are doing our part; looks like we’re replacing the two of us with only one.
For the love of god, men, stop looking at their boobs. They know when you’re doing it. Hell, I’m sitting across the room, and I know when you’re doing it. And ladies, if you don’t want them to look at your boobs, stop wearing things that say LOOK AT MY BOOBS. Unless I am missing THE WHOLE POINT.
I’m going to start donning an ascot. I will part my hair squeakily down the middle, and dress for dinner. I will say please and thank you and sip my soup with the spoon sweeping away from me. I will scrub with the finest unscented soaps and take up only my tiny, allotted space in a public place.
I will retire to the country, sit in my drawing room, and with a quill pen, I shall complete the Fourteenth Volume of “Things What Offend My Precious Sensibilities”. Join me for tea?