Why Do Americans Hate Me?

 I really don’t care why.

“Pretty Little Things” by guess who

I mean, I’ve been telling the truth since I was 7. I’ll never forget the time I casually mentioned to some family friends that Santa Claus wasn’t real. The dirty look via rear-view mirror I got from their mother was something. BTW, a belated “fuck you” to you, lady. I’m sorry your dumb kids hadn’t figured it out by then.

Listen, I understand it’s fun to believe in the supernatural. When I was young, I used to make up stories about fairies –and more importantly what they were wearing!!!– to pass the time while traveling in the car. I still like fairies. I like the idea of them. I like fairy art. But fairies do not exist. And, believe me, no one is more butthurt about this than I. But unless someone can actually catch one in a jar (they are small), I will remain sure they are not real.

Also, some interesting thoughts on the royal wedding and gender here.

P.S. Unicorns are real.


9 thoughts on “Why Do Americans Hate Me?

  1. If I could just have back the money I've spent on ammunition I've expended on shadows and fears and faeries and unicorns and aliens and all the other stuff of nightmares and sweat-drenched dreams, none of which, by the way, have the good manners to fucking DIE when you shoot them, well then I'd be living on a 56 foot sailboat in Kiribati and I'd renounce my foul citizenship and I'd smuggle that harsh south pacific rum that tastes like salty gasoline into the islands and spend my nights examining the full breasts of the Betio women.DO carry on…

  2. Oh dear. I'm afraid you've gotten something out of order. I think the gasoline rum and nights of debauched breast exams PRECEDED the fairies, unicorns and other demons.

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