So it’s July 4th again, America’s birthday, and I thought that this would be a good opportunity to give you a unique perspective on this great land of ours and what makes her so special. Even if it is a bit clichéd, this is a good day for reflection about this sort of thing. So here’st the chronicle of my love affair with America:
It all started in the bathroom of the Kansas City, Missouri Ramada Conference Center’s hotel bar. Wait; let me back up for a second. It was three or four years ago when I went to Kansas City on business. I was alone and on-edge after the first day of conferences so I decided to go to the hotel bar and grab a drink or two. And that’s where I first saw her. America was a large, striking woman with amber waves of hair flowing down onto her curvaceous body. From across the bar it looked like she was having a spirited conversation though I realized later there was nobody sitting next to her. I was instantly captivated.
I watched her from afar for a while before I finally got up the nerve to approach her.
“Hi. My name’s Chris. Can I buy you a drink?” She barely looked over at me in acknowledgement.
“Two Coors lights!” she bellowed at the bartender. “On this guy.”
I took a seat next to her. The bartender set down one frosty bottle in front of her and one in front of me. She grabbed the one in front of me and slid it next to hers. From there we talked. Actually, “talked” may be the wrong word. For about an hour she loudly and forcefully expressed her opinions on a wide variety of subjects. My only opportunities to speak happened when she became distracted by the sports clips playing on the muted bar television. I don’t think she heard a thing I said.
I was slowly coming to accept that America was not interested in me when she stopped mid sentence during a rant about the metric system and stared directly into my eyes.
“Come on.” She commanded as she grabbed my hand and pulled me away from my stool.
My memory is hazy about what happened next but the next thing I know we are in the handicapped stall of the men’s bathroom. I tried telling her that I had a room at the hotel but she didn’t seem to hear or care. So there, in the bathroom of the Kansas City Ramada’s hotel bar, I made love to America.
Well, “made love” isn’t really an accurate description. Things happened in that stall that I still can’t comprehend to this day. She moved with the grace and tenderness of an enraged bull elephant. She made me lick Arby’s sauce from her purple mountain’s majesties. Somehow, Van Halen was playing. I think I started crying at one point.
To put it simply, America fucked the shit out of me.
When she was done she slid her panties back on under her dress.
“Thanks for the fun, baby.” She said as she opened the stall door and left.
I sat curled up and naked in the corner of the stall for about ten minutes before I left, my mind struggling to make sense of everything that had transpired. I finally put my clothes back on and returned to my room.
I only saw America one more time on my trip. She was walking through the hotel lobby and I swear there wasn’t even a glimmer of recognition on her face as she passed me.
Looking back, I’m not sure how I feel about having been fucked by America, but I can say the experience changed me.
For that, America, I say: happy birthday to you.