Do you hate me now? No? How about now?

Oh, I wish I could transcend this fleshy prison. I’m trapped by my perceptions, by the limitations of my senses. I’m an American living in the second decade of the 21st century and I’m probably as sentient as a trained rat. Stimulus, response. Stimulus, response. That’s me. Zap my neurons with a television commercial and suddenly I crave a Big Mac. Tickle my balls with the image of an emaciated supermodel and I have a strange urge to fuck a 12-year-old boy.

Who convinced us these skinny women are sexy? The way their bones stick through their skin makes me think of box kites. I think making love to a supermodel would be like poking my dick into a baggie full of chicken bones. They’re so thin. I’d be afraid my dick would kill her, smash her internal organs into soup. I’d be pounding away at it, trying not to think of prepubescent boys, and her viscera would start streaming out her nose like sausage from a meat grinder.

I’ve been trained, all right. I’ve learned my function well. I’m a consumer, just like you. Patriotism means getting a credit card and maxing the fucker out on cheap electronics made in China. It’s good for America. It’s good for the country to gut the manufacturing base we used to have and ship it overseas where, coincidentally, there are no environmental regulations, no minimum wage laws, and no worker protections. It’s all profit! Isn’t that beautiful? Our factories are empty, leaking toxic waste into the water supply, while American factories in China are stuffed to the rafters with 8-year-old girls making a nickel an hour. They’re running shifts 24 hours a day and the money rains from the sky.

So don’t think about that avalanche of debt roaring toward you. Just watch the latest Rob Schneider movie on your 60-inch flat screen TV. This is the best of all possible worlds and you’re living right in the middle of it.

Yeah, I want to transcend my monkey limitations. My third eye is gummed shut from a lifetime of commercial conditioning. If I could think clearly, if my mind wasn’t a constant clamor of marketing jingles I’d be free to fulfill my potential. I could become Super American. What does Super American do? He builds Wal*Marts in Mecca! Shove over the Dome of the Rock with an M-1 tank and build a super Wal*Mart. A hundred aisles of cheap consumer crap. All of it made in Indonesia by 8-year-old girls. They work a hundred hours a week for a nickel an hour, but they love capitalism. They have to love it or they’ll starve to death. There are no Cadillac driving welfare queens in Indonesia. It’s either work until you drop dead at twenty, or be sold into the sex slavery market. These 8-year-olds think, “I can live my life chained to this injection molding machine, or I can have Rush Limbaugh fuck me in the ass. Hmm, what a choice. I guess corporate slavery ain’t so bad.”

No, corporate slavery ain’t so bad. Neither is dying in a fire. Not when the only alternative is to be gang raped by Glenn Beck, Bill O’Reilly, and Michelle Malkin. Don’t laugh. Michelle Malkin has a veiny, warty, suppurating cock that hangs to her knees. Every year she uses it to club baby harp seals to death. Then she licks the blood from the weeping tip of her pulsating cock. It’s how she stays so fresh and young.

A hundred aisles of cheap consumer crack. Introduce the Moslems to consumer hog heaven. Wal*Marts with minarets. A McDonald’s next to every mosque. Just because I’m an American and just because I know my lifestyle is superior to every other human possibility, I’ll introduce the Moslems to ham and bacon. It’s my foreign policy. Ham and bacon are tasty. If the Moslems would just enjoy a tasty breakfast every morning, maybe they won’t be so cranky. Maybe they won’t want to blow up any more of my buildings. Maybe they won’t crash any more of my airplanes. Maybe I can slip back into my coma. I can stop being afraid there’s a Moslem underneath every park bench. I can resume exporting democracy, dropping 500-lb bombs from the stratosphere onto Third World civilians all across the globe. I can go back to my old life, go back to what I do best—harassing the queers.

Did you think I forgot about the queers? I haven’t. The queers want to be recognized. They want to be accepted. The queers want special privileges. They want some assurance they can live among us without being beaten to death and left hung dripping blood on a barbed wire fence. What’s wrong with that? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that. The thought of two guys having sex makes my stomach roll. It’s sick. It’s disgusting. It flouts every law of God and man.

Can you imagine a bedroom full of 14-year-old girls fucking each other silly with 8-inch black dildoes? Oh my god, that’s so hot. It would make the highest grossing porno of all time. Of course, we’d have to use 18-year-old models to record the actual video. It’s illegal to use minors in porno shoots. I guess the First Amendment doesn’t mean much any more. But oh god! Fourteen-year-old girls! Their first sexual experiences with each other! Oh, the thrusting! The moaning! Their slender, glistening bodies writhing with each other! Their pink pudenda opening like blossoms! And they flit from pube to pube sipping the nectar there like lithe little honeybees.

But guys sucking dicks? That’s just perverted.

So as you can plainly see here, I do want to transcend my mortal limitations, but it seems I’ll never be able to transcend being American.