Born in the USA

I hate Americans.

The other night I was sprawled in the recliner on the third floor, my dog at my feet in front of the open window, catching a blissful breeze off The Lake after a sticky, 90-degree day. It was midnight. Stars spangled the sky, a lone cricket sang its plaintive song, the ceiling fan ticked steadily.

Suddenly the stillness was shattered by a series of loud explosions. My dog leapt backward, ears flat, tail between her legs, and began shaking uncontrollably. I knocked over my drink and willed my heart to start beating again. Just then a bouquet of bright fireworks blossomed in the darkness over the neighborhood, and I began swearing uncontrollably.

"Fucking Americans, I fucking hate fucking Americans."

We were treated to several more ear-splitting displays before silence was again restored, but by then it was too late. The tranquility of a summer's night had been destroyed, my dog was in a full-blown anxiety attack, and I had to Pause the DVD, peel myself out of the chair and go down to the kitchen for more wine. I stumbled back upstairs and, remote in one hand, goblet in the other, resumed watching Season Four, Episode Five of "The Sopranos."

I swore I would never fucking watch the fucking Sopranos. A handful of people whose opinions I respect tried to convince me of the quality of the series, but I remained stalwart in my resistance. Smug, even. Notwithstanding some of my favorite relatives are from New Jersey. And I've always had a thing for Italian men. And I fucking love the fucking Godfather movies. At any rate, the issue became moot because, the Gentle Reader may recall, in an effort to save our souls, we cancelled Satellite television awhile back.

Then Vanity Fair came out with that Sopranos issue, and on a lark I picked up the Season One videotape at the library. I popped home, popped open a beer, popped the tape into the VCR, and pressed Play. Ten minutes later, I was fucking hooked. It was the fucking ducks that did it. Now I'm fucking watching the whole fucking thing, as fast as Netflix can fucking turn it around.

I fucking love "The Sopranos." I love the fucking writing. I love the fucking soundtrack. I love the fucking hairdos. What the fuck. I fucking love everyfuckingthing about it. And if anybody out there thinks it would be fucking cute to reveal the fucking ending, you'd better think twice. Let's get this straight: I. WOULD. NOT. THINK. IT. WAS. FUCKING. CUTE.

But back to the fucking fireworks. There's a time and a place for everything. Except the unbearable fucking arrogance of your Average American Asshole trumps respect for the rights of others every fucking time. From pissing on the environment to Hummers and ATVs to conceal-and-carry, the AAA standing next to you in the checkout line wants what he wants when he wants it as loud as he wants it for as long as he wants it so go fuck yourself.

Which isn't a bad idea. Except I've gotta finish Season Four, Episodes Six and Seven before getting the fuck outta Dodge and hightailing it up to The Cabin, where I'll be spending our nation's birthday far far from the madding crowd. The madding fucking crowd of firecracking fucking Americans.

I fucking hate Americans.