America: The Unauthorized Autobiography

So it's happening again. Today is, what is today? The 239th anniversary of the signing of the American Declaration of Independence?

It's been one hell of a run, boys and girls. We've had, like, ten thousand wars, five hundred million arm wrestling contests, at least thirty spelling bees, and seventeen billion wet t-shirt contests since the fateful day when that fabled sentient clockwork automaton dubbed "Thomas Jefferson" by its creator, noted mad scientist and legendary sex machine Benjamin Franklin, quickly scrawled the words to the incendiary Declaration on the priceless dried skin of a fabled gryphon with the blood of a hanged man for ink, after being struck by a bolt of violet lightning from a cloudless sky during the Continental Congress' mid-day outdoor picnic. It is said that when the Declaration was read aloud, each member of the Congress ejaculated simultaneously upon hearing the divinely-inspired words written by that terrifying mechanical man that once laid waste to the city of Charleston with its unholy strength when it was denied entrance to a local bathhouse.

Within days, George Washington, head of the Continental Army and ageless necromancer, emptied the land's cemeteries and called forth an army of the dead that would decimate any living militia, cutting down their enemies with great relish and raising their fresh corpses to bolster their numbers with each victory. Having eliminated the British forces in North America (with absolutely no assistance from the French), Washington rode across the Atlantic Ocean on the back of a streaking comet, uttering obscene incantations as he skull-fucked dottering old King George while the tyrant sat upon his throne of jewel-encrusted peasant skulls.

And when the dead monarch's head cracked open like an egg nine months later, our Constitution was born, fully formed and dripping with old man brain-goo. The super powered parchment then leapt from the ruins of the wretched king's skull, high-fived Franklin (somehow) as the man was simultaneously banging three smokin' hot French courtesans with the help of one of his truly inspired lightning-powered dildo-based inventions, then flew back across the Atlantic Ocean on wings of freedom to annihilate the quavering British army with a cleansing fire the likes of which this world hadn't seen since the Old Testament days.
 

Then the hand of God descended from the heavens and installed the sacred guardian we call the Statue of Liberty at its watch post on Liberty Island, where she keeps an eternal vigil over us all, protecting us from from those dastardly Redcoats, lest they return to take our freedom, and our McRibs, and our skyrocketing childhood obesity rates, and our coveted Kardashian stockpiles. 

I think that's how it happened. I never paid much attention in school. I'm pretty sure Thomas Jefferson also summoned the Deep Ones to consume the British Naval Fleet at some point, but I've found no official records to back up this claim. 

But freedom, right? Not butt freedom, but I'm okay with that too, don't get me wrong. I assume the term "freedom" encompasses the wide, wonderful world of butt freedom, anyway. It just goes without saying. Butt I digress. 

Freedom is what this majestic holiday is all about, right? Freedom to get hammered and blow shit up while we suffer underneath the unforgiving summer sun. It's an American tradition, suffering. Freedom, too, I suppose. And fire. Sweet, purifying fire. But some of us take our copious freedoms for granted. Some of us take things too far. Some of us... Some of us share pictures of food on the Internet. 

"Food porn" these perverted cretins call it. I've had enough of this madness. Why do you feel compelled to share photos of your future bowel movements with all of your "friends" on social media? What does this accomplish? 

Hello, fellow hoo-mans! I, much like all of you, require material sustenance in order to perpetuate the crude organic mechanism that is my body! I feel it necessary to share photographic proof of my impending mastication with all of you in an effort to prove that I am superior at the consumption of caloric fuel, and wish to invoke feelings of jealousy in all of your primitive brains as you gaze upon my bounty! 

 

Yummy nummers, om nom nom, et cetera, et cetera, your loyal friend,

Jeremiah "Butt Freedom" Hezekiah Stone. 
 

What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you punishing the world with this nonsense? I would hate to meet the person who honestly gives a flying fuck about that blurry photo of what appears to be a bowl of diarrhea you intend to feed your quirky, awful children this evening. 

Oh, your precocious, cross-eyed daughter Kelleee-Jayne just can't get enough of your homemade pig-face stew? That's fucking amazing for you, but I don't need photos of that gastronomic abomination polluting my timeline. 

But wait, your adorable, open-minded son Elvis-Mildred is allergic to bread, so you have to use slices of buttered whale blubber to make his completely organic kale and horse lung sandwiches? Holy shit, you need to snap a quick pic of that pile of fetid matter and send it to all of the people in your "Aren't We Just The Best, LOL" group on Facebook! 

Look, dudes! I ordered a porterhouse steak at this overpriced restaurant, and I got a porterhouse steak at this overpriced restaurant! Let me take a photo of this miracle of miracles and put it on Twitter, because surely nobody will believe this outlandish story without proof! 

How sad and pathetic must you be to think the world cares about what your fucking food looks like? What kind of diseased mind works that way? To all of you awful, awful fiends who can't help but share pictures of your goddamned meals on the worldwide web for the approval of people you hardly know and don't even like, I advise you to eat shit and die.
 

But hey, it's America, and you're free to be as hollow and despicable as you choose. Isn't that great?

Do you know what else is great? America. Who doesn't love America? Cocksuckers, that's who. Not literal cocksuckers, of course. Those generous men and women are doing God's work, and they should be celebrated, not shunned. I'm referring to metaphorical cocksuckers, those motherfuckers who hate America, most likely because of all our freedom.

Those pricks see us over here, having all this fun, eating cheeseburgers bigger than our heads, shooting each other all day, every day with our millions upon millions of guns that kind people just hand out on the streets for shits and giggles, bathing in the blood of our enemies as we binge-watch season after season of The Real Housewives Of Joe-Bob's Crack, Georgia on Hulu, depleting the world's supply of delicious boxed wine, wearing clothes that don't cover our faces or arms, flaunting our superior breast implant technology and just generally being the greatest fucking country this miserable old world has ever seen, and they fucking hate us for it.

And can you blame them? We are pretty fucking awesome, after all. These cocksuckers hate us, but that shouldn't force us to change our ways. Why should we? If they can't deal with our amazingness, then we'll just blow them all the fuck up with our next-level military drones. You can't cope with America being number one? KABOOM, motherfucker! Who needs you? Not America, my friends. Not America. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a burning desire to celebrate this country's glorious past, present and future by blowing up half the state of Kansas with this gigantic box of fireworks I'm staring at right now.

Take it away, Alice Cooper!!!



ALL ABOARD THE FREEDOM TRAIN!!!