America Needs to Take a Long, Hard Look in the Mirror
I no longer recognize the country I love and it is more painful than losing visitation rights to my five children.
Where is America?
I ask this question both figuratively — because I am an excellent writer and thought leader — and literally, because a recent study conducted by The Eagle Shield shows that 80% of Americans cannot locate their country on a map of North America.
Consider that. Nearly two thirds of this nation’s populace don’t know where they are.
Fifty years ago, when I was beginning the first grade at St. Aloysius Prep in the Bronx, not only could I point out America on a map, I could also spot it on a globe. By third grade, Sister Jacqueline had drilled my classmates and I on the locations of all Eastern Bloc nations, with an emphasis on states which purportedly housed nuclear weaponry and facilities. We were prepared.
Today, our citizenry is uninformed and 40% transgendered. We have lost our way — The American Way. If we are not careful, the country may soon be known as the United States of Portland. Though we teeter on the precipice of catastrophe and bikes-only roadways, I do not believe that we are too far gone. It is my firm belief that if we reclaim these basic tenets of our nation’s identity, we may once again be the world’s Most Free Nation:
Hot dogs must be a staple of the American diet, beginning in early child care and continuing into adulthood.
When I was 12 years old, I would eat a Hebrew National hot dog for breakfast each morning to mock Sandy Koufax’s decision not to pitch on Jewish Ramadan (even as an adolescent, I was a social justice warrior). Besides being hilarious and making a statement about athletes with women’s names, I was the beneficiary of a 30-pound weight gain which — due to the lean nature of hot dog meat and my one-of-a-kind drive for self-improvement — I easily converted to pure muscle.
That fall, I was the Bronx Catholic Wrestling League champion and the first boy in my class to be deflowered. These accomplishments set me on the trajectory I continue today as a very great person and titan of media.
Over the past several years, I have heard nothing but damaging myths about hot dogs and sausaged foods, including that they are made from the meats of household animals and resemble penis, so that you look like a homosexual when you eat one. The fear mongering reached an all-time high in 2001, when a young Japanese woman named Takeru Kobayashi devoured 50 hot dogs in the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest in Coney Island on the Fourth of July, validating in the minds of many the rumor that hot dogs were in fact made from shih tzus and chow chows. This was the worst day of my life, and easily the lowest moment in over 200 years of Japanese-American relations.
The reputation of hot dogs has yet to recover, despite their proven health benefits and my lobbying of Congress to include hot dogs as a vegetable on school lunch menus.
To this day, I eat a weiner for breakfast every morning and I am the picture of health, having experienced only four cardiac episodes in my fifties, well below the global average. I can personally recommend Johnsonville, Eckrich, and Hillshire Farm as sausage brands which will help you put on lean muscle and make you, and our nation, strong enough to wrestle tyranny.
America must prioritize a rejuvenation of the automotive industry.
Let me tell you a little story about somebody who you might have heard of before — me.
In college, I drove a Ford Thunderbird. It was red and that mother could move. I would park it in front of the Women’s Studies building on Friday afternoons and wait for my weekend to get out of class, if you know what I’m saying. Honestly, I would just comb my hair with the top down and the puss would form an orderly queue, baby. I was — and remain — a very attractive man to most women. After an extensive vetting process during which I would ask them what their fathers do for a living and made sure they supported the war in Vietnam, I would select the chick with the best set of whoppers and pop the passenger door for her to slide in the cab with me. We would then engage in 48 to 60 hours of joy riding and joy riding, if you know what I’m saying.
In addition to having a spacious backseat that allowed me to work my gear to the fullest extent of natural law, that car also helped provide jobs to almost one billion American families. The automotive industry was the lifeblood of our economy and a signal to the rest of the world that America gets its hands dirty.
Times have changed.
Today, my 13-year old son Duncan — a virgin — considers the Toyota Prius to be the best car on the market. This is an American Horror Story. Somehow, over the past 30 to 40 years, pride in American motors has evaporated to make room for something called “environmental consciousness” and “not wanting more than I need.” Our thoroughfares are clogged with hideous German and Asian-made hunks of junk, and my son — a husky youth — prefers them to the might and power of a Dodge Charger. Yes, I am worried about my son. I am worried about America.
If we do not return to the days of Fords and Chevys dominating the roadways, this November we will be eating Thanksgiving brunch while our daughters tell us that they will be raising our grandchildren in an interfaith home. The stakes are this high.
Dating must be done offline and return to its natural home — the fraternity houses of America.
The Internet is a den of cowards. Outside of The Eagle Shield, FightLiberals.com, and Wikipedia, there is no truth on the World Wide Web, and dating sites are the foremost enemy of truth in this digital age.
After my most recent divorce, I created an account on a site called Christian Mingle — a dating platform where those who had accepted Jesus Christ as their savior could meet for hookups and casual sex. Almost immediately I was inundated with messages from pious women in my area. One woman in particular, a petite mother of two who I will call “Liar,” caught my eye and I arranged a date with her at a local Christian bookstore.
Things were going well. Liar was a dog person, voted for both Bushes, and had an oral fixation. I was smitten. After the date, we made our way back to my condo and engaged in deep petting, activating one another’s erogenous zones to maximize pleasure. I put a towel over the sheets like a gentleman, we said a prayer, and we disrobed. But then, just before I entered Liar, she pushed me away, looked in my eyes, and said, “I need to know that you’re a feminist.”
Needless to say, I called the police. This woman, who I’m pretty sure I was in love with, was a feminist parading about town, disguised as a Christian sex goddess, and dragging unsuspecting defenders of freedom into sin. As the boys in blue hauled her away, I logged onto Christian Mingle and wondered who else had been deceiving me.
Carla, the dental hygienist who had gotten implants after surviving breast cancer? Probably a Lutheran. Denise, the Pilates instructor who lost her brother in Desert Storm? Believes in “climate change.” Stacy, the kindergarten teacher with a hot daughter? Terrorist.
The Internet cannot be trusted. It is too easy for extremists to masquerade as good folks. In order to make a romantic match that America can be proud of, you need a supportive group of fellow conservatives and like-minded patriots who can play wingy for you, freshen your partner’s beverage, and suss out any Communism or gay in your partner in a safe and non-judgmental environment. I am referring, of course, to fraternities and sororities.
I am a proud Sigma Tau. My first wife, Charvelyn, is a proud Kappa Phi. We met at a fraternity mixer during our junior year at Rutgers. I remember being attracted to Char because, unlike her sorority sisters, she did not speak much and her hair would not move in the wind. To me, she was a vision.
After clapping eyes on her, I marked her as my own by spraying her hair and blouse with the keg hose. This is a tradition at Sigma Tau which serves a dual purpose: first, to express your interest in a woman with a hilarious and flirtatious bit of razzing, and second, to show to all Sigma men in the vicinity that this woman was now yours, and that any interference, under any circumstances, would be a violation of fraternity bylaws which would result in being monkey-fucked by the pledges in the formal lounge. Because Sigma men are men of honor, they gave us an entire evening alone. Ever chivalrous, Bobby and Cliff even looked the other way when Char started crying because her friends had left without her and she had no ride home, letting me be her knight in shining armor to comfort her and make her feel like she had no choice but to stay with me for the night.
What Charvelyn and I had was hot magic. To this day, I mourn her loss in that unexplained cycling incident, knowing that if it weren’t for her carelessness on that Schwinn, we would have stayed together for at least six or seven more years before she began to sag.
Fraternities are the site of millions of American love stories. These connections are made offline, in basements or rooms with inadequate cell reception, surrounded by young men of means who are used to having what they want, who are thick-bodied and strong, lubricated by alcohol, and warmed by the scent of a woman. It is here, and not online, in the quiet of your home, on your cowardly and duplicitous terms, that the future power couples of our nation are made.
My dream is to live to see a third world war so that my sons may risk their lives for The American Way. If America does not reclaim its identity and give the world more reasons to be jealous of us, that day may never come. God help us if it doesn’t.