When I look at that grand old flag, waving up there, big and proud in the breeze, my heart swells near to bursting, and a tear forms in my eye from thinking of all that it represents. Freedom. Glory. Tradition. For this land—the greatest on earth—is the land that I love, and may its song of liberty ring out from now until—what in the hell am I saying? This country and all its inhabitants can go take a flying fuck for all I care, honestly.
Because, as I was saying, patriotism is my lifeblood. My very essence. Red-blooded American patriotism. For America. America the beautiful. O beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, like Ray Charles ever saw amber fucking anything. Amber waves of nimrods trying to cut in front of me at the supermarket, maybe. Yes, in the words of Francis Scott Key: “Aw, who gives a crap?” And, of course, the purple mountains’ majesty, though the last time I was in the mountains was when I visited my pain-in-the-ass sister and her clammy-handed husband and it was the worst weekend of my life.