Happy Birthday, America

To my dearest America on her 230th birthday,

Wow, this marriage has really gone to shit over the last few years, hasn't it? It's like we can't even talk anymore. You're always going off to start fights you can't explain. Meanwhile, I'm stuck here at home trying to pay off all your debts.

I know I've got a few quirks of my own, but you are one wound-up bitch these days. Maybe you should take some yoga classes. At least try to stop being so goddamn noisy. Can't we go to just one Olympic event without you screaming "U-S-A!" all the time?

I suppose we're drifting ever closer to cracking this mo-fo wide open with lawyers, bombs and millions dead. But you know something? I'd still rather be with you, America. After all, I've got 37 years up in this.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I think our history still counts for something. Besides, I can't just shack up with France. What would the neighbors think?

We've had some good times together, America. Who's to say we won't see more? So let's just pretend like it's old times tonight. After a nice meal at Applebee's, we'll get drunky-drunk on cheap wine and dance naked in the sprinkler. Then we'll pump up the air mattress right there in the backyard and I'll do that thing with my pinky that makes you moan like a sick owl.

Despite all we've been through, you're still my favorite freak mama.

Love,
GB