My Insides Are Burning

This is America. This is a country built on freedom. And if that freedom means building a politically-regulated pharmaceutical industry so that people can still get their "fix" by just jumping through extra hoops, then so be it.

We think we can't fix ourselves, and we're right; washing down powder-filled pellets is the only way to feeling as best one can. It's easier. Just stop walking places: drive. Forget creating your meals: buy them factory sealed.

Some people will say, "But pills are poison, our country is overmedicated!"

I agree.

"What?!" That person responds, flabbergasted.

Yes. We are overmedicated. There's a reason for that: we're the Number One Country! That means we are the best at obtaining and consuming medicines. YEAH BOY!

Once again, America's global dominance stands shining like President Bush with a forgot-my-umbrella look on his face.

Yikes.

A Ticket for the Bus

Homeless people.

We all love 'em. The way they walk. The way they smell. The way they argue with the wind. It's people like the homeless who make America what it is: a hot mess of nomadic freedom-lovers.

Homeless people are the most patriotic; many recycle, several collect coins, and most of them literally sleep on America.

In this great country, 18% of 19-23-year-olds are homeless. That's 12.4 million young-adult patriots showing the world that even without a home, America's the place to be.

Awesome.

People are always focusing on the bad parts of homelessness. I'm too much of an optimist for that.

The homeless are lucky, because they:

- Don't bother with searching for bathrooms.
- Have the confidence to talk to whomever they want.
- Get to burn stuff in old 55-gallon drums.
- Enjoy different shoes simultaneously.
- Walk around in blankets.
- Are good at yelling.
- Excel at making humorous/scared faces.
- Fall into no tax-bracket.
- Aren't restricted to gender-specific fashion.
- Can't get foreclosed on again.

Anyone with a small part of their brain working can see why being homeless rocks. Leave a comment about why YOU think being homeless is the American way to go.

With Meatballs

In America, our cars subliminally communicate with other drivers. How so? By having objects stuck to the exterior.

Our first piece of "Lookatme!" is the Boeing-sized hood-wing. I believe most refer to it as a "spoiler." An accurate description if there ever was one. It teams with your car's bodykit to personify a third-grader's sketch.

You live in L.A. Traffic will never let you go fast enough to need that, and if it does, you will take to the air in a haphazard, disintegrating fashion. The American way!

Parents across the country have started feeling a little less guilty after admitting, "I love my child's sporting endeavors so much, their personal safety means nothing." Yep. You guessed it, the ol' baseball-stuck-in-my-minivan's-back-window-but-I'm-not-going-to-fix-it gag.

Finally, let's say you add flame decals to your vehicle's logos, grills, and wheel wells. That an American's way of warning you, "This car burns at high-speeds. Stay back."

While it is very nice to give a non-verbal "heads up" to other drivers, the flame may not be the way to go. How awesome would it be if you had spaghetti running down the front panels? Or blood. Now THERE'S something with a bit of a punch: blood.

You will get pulled over, and possibly arrested, but for those short moments driving with your bloody car, people will know you don't mess around. That's right. "I don't mess around, I'm American."

Have an idea for something other than flames? Let your voice be heard in the comments.

The Big Button on the Right

It all started in 1881, after Kenneth Kodak introduced the world to his "light-catching box."

Photography wasn't popular initially, because it was too expensive. After a while, however, when 35mm cameras premiered in 1967, affordability helped usage bloom.

Today, you can't go anywhere without getting your picture taken. Even if you frequent a dive bar, someone in your party will always have a camera.

Which brings me to why America is so awesome: we've segregated our pictures. Girls take pictures cheek to cheek, with kissy-faces and white teeth shining; guys stand side by side, a respectable distance apart, giving a toothless smile if any at all. So much of the same thing...Americans being AMERICAN!

On of our social norms has us adhering to what we think we should be doing in a picture; it's caused the percentage of shitty ones to skyrocket. More and more photos fail to be defined as "photography," and instead revert to a simple cataloging of the familiar.

Sears. Yeah, I always think of it, too.

If you can remember the last time you shopped at Sears, leave a comment. It's the American thing to do.

You Were in a 4g Inverted Dive with a MiG28?

The movie Starman. That's where I first learned of "the middle finger." If you've seen this Jeff Bridges-vehicle, maybe you remember when he (as an alien) uses a urinal for the first time. He observes the guy next to him so as to learn how to properly relieve himself, and the harried trucker rudely flips him off, saying "Up yours!" I asked my grandma what that meant, and she said it was something bad, and not to do it.

The next week, on the school bus, I flipped off Gene the bully. Gene always needed a shower, and he had homemade tattoos. He was 14. A lot of the times he wore Megadeth t-shirts. These shirts almost always had their sleeves removed. He called me a "bathead." He deserved it.

After my detention, I learned to use the finger sparingly and out of eyesight of authority figures. I came to appreciate its strength and nuance.

Fast-rewind 230 years earlier:

Twenty-four months before declaring our independence from the Brits, William Williamson trademarked the middle finger through the Office of the Continental Congress. In short, America became the owner of the gesture. It was actually the first hand motion to be internationally recognized by the United Nations (U.N. Pref. Assoc. 34(c)-0.1ch7).

At first, no one knew that getting "flipped the bird" was an affront. But, thanks to the local printing press (kudos, Johan Guttenburg), the public learned they should be completely offended by a particular outstretched digit. It was an early taste of the freedom our country would soon have...the freedom to be told what to think. AWESOME!

Like telling people they're number one? Let us know in the comments.

Not Tonight Ladies, I'm Here to Get Drunk

Alcohol. It helps 220 million American adults deal with their goalless lives. Well, not all adults...you still have to wait three years after your "adult" 18th birthday.

Why did we, as a country, decide you need to be 21-years-old to legally drink alcohol? Because Herbert Hoover was a gambling addict, and figured it was a lucky age for you to get unluckily plastered.

But Americans weren't always so lucky.

The year was 1922. Americans were happy because no one saw the Great Depression coming. The men were hung like elephants, and the women were looser than a pair of old socks. Then, someone decided to ruin the fun and prohibit alcohol from being consumed. Redonkulous.

For the next 11 years, Prohibition helped millions of tavern owners become homeless, gave homeless people an excuse to actually buy that bus ticket home, and helped build millionaires out of whiskey-runnin', gun-totin', law-flauntin' future politicians. But, that all came to an end after Eisenhower's famous "I'll Have a Beer" speech.

The end of Prohibition allowed our nation to stagger back to it's feet, just in time to get drunk of its ass.

As I write this, America is the only country whose drinking age is 21. All other countries have either 1) no alcohol, 2) no drinking age, or 3) a drinking age lower than 21 (it's 12 in Brazil). Do the math.

Turning 21 is a special time in every non-teetotaler's life. It's the day that one usually sees how much alcohol can be ingested before his or her body defense system literally rejects (read: regurgitates) more than the amount it has determined will kill you. Does that make sense?

Anyways, back to malt liquor: If our Forefathers hadn't invented malt liquor, I would not have been able to get depressingly drunk on my 21st birthday. Not only did I go to the liquor store at the STRIKE OF MIDNIGHT, I bought King Cobra.

Have you ever drank King Cobra? I hadn't. My buddy and I thought it would be a fun choice. We were also idiots.

Now, I'm not sure who the brainiac-wizard was who came up with the name "King Cobra," but it has no snake parts listed as ingredients, and the only reason to call it "king"-anything would be the fact that after too many, it commands you to lie across the kitchen floor.

We were drinking forties. That's slang for a 40-ounce beverage. A big beverage. It's feels even bigger as those alcohol-soaked ounces drive through your circulatory system.

After a couple of "KCs", as we liked to call them, I went to the bathroom. (Warning: a little gross disclosure coming up.) As I sat on the toilet (doing what men do when they sit on a toilet...besides reading), my stomach told me it wasn't feeling good. So, I had to throw up in the bathtub. At that point, my eyes were watering because the stomach acid was so pungent. Also, my nose was running. If earwax could somehow flow, I think all my orifices would have been putting in some O.T.

The moral of the story? Don't drink King Cobra.

So, malt liquor and Prohibition (the end of it) are just two more reasons why America is awesome. Don't think I'm right? Why don't you let me know in the comments

Put It In Your Mouth

French fries: You stuff 'em in your face, and smile until you're crappin' your pants later in the day.

The first French fries appeared right after the French-American War, in 1827. After thoroughly defeating the "Berets" (as they were called back then) the Americans celebrated with a large breakfast.

Cookie, the frontier cook, wanted to whip up his favorite fried 'taters, but did not have a knife handy. He found an old screen door, and pushed the raw potato through, creating thin slivers of potato. Later, at breakfast, Americans were heard talking about the newly shaped, fried vegetable; it was delicious. In a show of respect, Americans decided that the new side dish would be called "french fries." It was the least we could do for the country that never wins.

At the turn of the 20th century, Matthew Donell saw gold where others saw tubers. He opened a burger-restaurant, McDonalds, and served french fries with each hamburger sandwich. The fries were such a big hit, he created his business' logo in honor of two, curved fries that he accidentally dropped on the floor. The Golden Arches indeed.

But the French weren't always so loved.

Years later, France wouldn't back America in a fake war (shocker), so a lot of people felt betrayed by the baguette-country. French fries were briefly changed to "freedom fries" in the South and everywhere else that FOX News is popular. People on the street were angry and proud: "AMERICA MOTHERTRUCKER!" they would scream in the background of the local news' on-location reports.

Still, while the voices of the republic said one thing, their mouths said another; French fries continued to grow so popular, they came to make up 39% of the average American's annual diet. Appalling...and delicious.

Though we are now fatter, we still are happy knowing America is the Number One Country. No country has so brazenly hurt themselves in order to honor another. We sweat respect...even from climbing one short set of stairs.

If you like fries, let us know in the comments. If you don't like fries, why not, Commie?