I must be allowed to get it off my chest. I know it’s not … precisely true, but it captures the essence of how I feel whenever I’m abroad.
We’re the king sized, bad assed kings and queens of creation, and I realized last night that I was pulling all my movements, speaking lower than normal because I was afraid of breaking… well… everything. In fact, I’m afraid of denting the country if I stomp my feet, I’m afraid of causing a riot if I work up to a really good yelling fit, I’m afraid of crushing everything I touch without meaning to.
I realized this morning most of that is a psychic impression, so to put it. I just came from a con, where I can be the most myself, because I’m among my people who get the eccentricities and quirks of an Odd, and I plunged straight into a society in which no one is allowed to be Odd, and in which I must — in vain, largely — try to pass.
So I woke up with PJ O’Rourke’s rant running through my head, and I’m having a hard time not translating and shouting, so I’m posting here to allay the need.
“I was having dinner…in London…when eventually he got, as the Europeans always do, to the part about “Your country’s never been invaded.” And so I said, “Let me tell you who those bad guys are. They’re us. WE BE BAD. We’re the baddest-assed sons of bitches that ever jogged in Reeboks. We’re three-quarters grizzly bear and two-thirds car wreck and descended from a stock market crash on our mother’s side. You take your Germany, France, and Spain, roll them all together and it wouldn’t give us room to park our cars. We’re the big boys, Jack, the original, giant, economy-sized, new and improved butt kickers of all time. When we snort coke in Houston, people lose their hats in Cap d’Antibes. And we’ve got an American Express card credit limit higher than your piss-ant metric numbers go. You say our country’s never been invaded? You’re right, little buddy. Because I’d like to see the needle-dicked foreigners who’d have the guts to try. We drink napalm to get our hearts started in the morning. A rape and a mugging is our way of saying ‘Cheerio.’ Hell can’t hold our sock-hops.
We walk taller, talk louder, spit further, fuck longer and buy more things than you know the names of. I’d rather be a junkie in a New York City jail than king, queen, and jack of all Europeans. We eat little countries like this for breakfast and shit them out before lunch.”
P J O’Rourke
And that’s about it.