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The word. The word makes me hard.
"AMERICA." Embossed gold, or redwhiteandblue but always in vital, voluptuous tones. Fulsome. Over-full. The flag— a flourish of satin in a stiff breeze. When I see it in the damp clefts of my mind, I see some Southern-Californian girl gone
wild on a beach. She’s colored gold— of undetermined ethnic make-up, though she’s definitely darker than me. She has slender, manicured fingers, varnished in pink, and with them she delicately picks the stars and stripes out from between her dewy ass cheeks. Squeals of delight on the moist air, thick with the calculation of hook-up
permutations. Applause and high-fives. This is beach volleyball. Always one simmering minute from an orgy. It is the national sport of America.
Females of age twelve are not discernible from females aged eighteen. This is deliberate. It is a social contract to which all parties are signatories; the graphic designer who came up with the "J U I C Y" template, the fashion consultant who
decided to place it across the rear of the velour sweats, Miss middle-school America (Hilary Duff), who insists on wearing them, and the generations of American gentlemen who held the door for ladies-first, in the involuntary throes of this ogling, anal fixation. Equally complicit are Kanye West, who designed the workout plan to begin
with, and the Walmart which whored the muscle-toner to Hilary’s mother, who is Eva Longoria.
For six years or so, Mr. America sits in the dark, transfixed by a cathode ray. This period of female life is known as "foreplay." He places one hand over his eyes but makes sure to leave a slit just big enough. Looped relentlessly, an
overexposed video of JonBenet plays— strutting, growling, legs akimbo, toes tapping. His itching skin is soon tickled raw by skirts, frills, perms, fingertips, and other little unmentionables, which drift languorously into the room, like a hypnotizing smoke, from the television. This peepshow is entirely outlawed, and demonized to frenzy.
Female pubescence has an illicit, delicious aroma. Nubility is nobility. An artist’s impression of Hilary is a tattoo on a pelvis, creeping south, ecstatically anticipating a nearby birthday. Hulk Hogan is Mr. America.
The national anthem of America is "We Will Rock You." It is proper procedure to play it at high-school football half-times, in drunk-sex dorm rooms, at religious retreats, at military school graduations, at the somber conclusion of Homeland
Security plenaries, and at presidential inaugurations. "We Will Rock You" is also official US foreign policy. American women apply lip gloss slowly, and always in side profile, and they stash pro-wrestling fantasies like they stash the thousands stolen from their ex-husbands. Just the pounding, opening bars of the national anthem are
enough to make an American woman lose her reason. American women love a man in uniform.
The American male is totally into the international thing. Ethnic chicks are so hot, but you really have to sell the freedom and democracy deal.
—"Look, if you don’t want to… I mean we don’t have to… I think you’re gonna like it though… hey it’s your choice baby…" That normally works. But if doesn’t, just get out the guns.
Digital rape is dropping the hand without consent, and if it’s any good, it can feel like it lasts the best part of a century. It can only be avenged, in true accordance with fundamentalist tradition, by removing the offending fingers. Picture the hand of
America, holding out two fingers hey FUCK YOU then they’re caught in a vice and cut, wrenched, broken, and torn down with big rusty pliers. First the long one goes and now there’s just the pointer and it’s trembling and broken, gasping sorry sorry sorry but then there are no fingers and no fuck you and NO, fuck YOU and that is called
nine-eleven. |