I sensed something was fishy on the Fourth of July, as I was unfurling my Bull-Dog Bunting American flag, proudly made in America by the now defunct Detra Flag Company. In years past, mine was just one among many on display on our street; however, this time around it was the only one. Turns out the local Boy Scouts are no longer setting out flags. No, ever since the last National Jamboree, their focus has turned from public service to monetary gain. Instead of performing good deeds, young boys in brown shirts now look forward to making big bucks, buying big yachts, and boinking buxom porn stars.
Oh well. At least we can be still proud of the World Cup, featuring players—many of whom came of age in shithole countries—who display extraordinary skill and admirable sportsmanship on a level playing field. It was hard to pick a favorite; however, Anne and I decided to root for Colombia for sentimental reasons.
Fifty years ago we two met in a Peace Corps training camp high atop a mountain near Arecibo, Puerto Rico. What with trees, roads and electricity, Puerto Rico was lovely back then, each morning in paradise beginning with the raising of the Colombian flag and a singing of that country’s national anthem:
“Oh, Gloria immarcessible!
El bien germina ya…”
Ding dong. It was someone at the door–a big hairy guy wearing a star-spangled doo rag and a T-shirt featuring an angry eagle clutching an AR-15 in its talons.
“Shut the blank up!” he shouted. “This is America! I wanna hear Lee Greenwood! If you two don’t like it here, go back to where you came from!”
For my wife, that would be Texas. Me? Well, I’ve pretty much lived all my life in Utah, although last time I was in Scotland I felt very much at home. My affection for the birthplace of my grandfather has only grown as I recently watched anti-Trump protests in the cobbled streets of Edinburgh. Granted, the food there’s nothing to shout about; to wit:
In fact, I strongly suspect my Scottish forebears emigrated in hopes of escaping the tyranny of their native cuisine. However, should the time come when I am forced to choose between Donald Trump and Tripe, Menzies style, rest assured I shall choose the latter. Chased down by a wee dram of Bruichladdich Laddie Ten.
