I’m not convinced that I would make a very good american. For instance; I don’t enjoy the smell of dryer sheets, or Robert Frost. Yes, I am implying an inherent stench in each. How far can I get with this dual barreled burden? A beloved poet raised by our fertile country; and too, the little paper sheets that coat our clothes with anti-static stink and lipid like texture, all put down in one opening paragraph.
Speaking american is like speaking vanilla. Neutral northern accents all but entirely bled of inflection, soaking the earth with white folk stereotypes. Dead tongues twitching to roll an ‘r’ that only comes out with a lisp. Vice Presidents that grin like vultures and that would swoop down to prey if the tight navy suit didn’t keep his flaps in check. Presidents that grin like a dachshund pondering a staircase, brow furrowed, lips pursed as to give clearance to the many very tiny government spy jets waiting in orbit to land upon them.
I have no particular quarrels with apple pie, though a rudimentary staple; or with majestic purple mountains for that matter. So I guess all is well, only a fifty percent loss in ratings, and the band plays on…
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