I see a country, by oakvale

I love the United States of America. Yes, I love her - from her rich abundance of fast food outlets to the alluring, almost sexual jags and curves of her coasts - and it hurts. I get angry, frustrated and saddened when I see her in bad shape, looking like a meth whore, her big 80s hair falling in ugly clumps from the national scalp.

For almost 237 years now, the United States of America has stood proud, the world's loudest and shrillest voice for the vague "Reaganesque" concepts I hold dear. Freedom. Liberty. God. Yes, America remains the mythical shining city on the hill (Reagan, 2:15 - "You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden."), but I fear the city is crumbling, decaying - overrun by ethnic groups of every hue under the sun, by hordes of marauding homosexuals, by groups of wild-eyed socialists, by fearsome militias of Black Panthers, and, yes, by Democrats. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by political correctness, starving, hysterical naked, dragging themselves through San Francisco streets at dawn looking for a "fix". A "fix" of drugs.

I knew a woman once, and her name was Freedom. She was aging but vital, the righteous (and Right-eous) fire in her eyes more than making up for the sagging in her bosom and the distinguished crow's feet around her eyes. She had a stunning mess of blow-dried, blonde hair, improbably permed. We spoke of God and country, of small government and low taxes. She was twice my age, with two grown sons fighting overseas, and a third who was a Republican Congressman. She was, in short, what I called a 'cougar'.

We made love like animals, on a blanket underneath the stars. Afterward, I smoked a cigarette and pointed out the constellations. "That one's Reagan," I said, pointing. She took the cigarette out of my mouth and took a drag. "That one's Bush. That one -" I pointed at a cluster of stars resembling a weeping eagle "is Liberty".

Freedom looked at me for a very long time. "Liberty," she whispered. "Liberty," I replied with the kind of grin Tom Cruise gave in Top Gun, and kissed her.

Me and Freedom parted ways the next evening. I understood. I was a virile, if ginger, young man, and she was a mature woman with a deep sadness inside. As I turned to leave, throwing on my denim jacket, she grabbed my arm. "Remember to always vote Republican!" she said. I smiled. "Always do," I replied, and jumped on my horse, Gipper, casually tossing my ten gallon hat on my head.

As I rode off into the sunset that July night, I realised it was July 4th. Independence Day. I slid off Gipper and sat on the side of the road, staring out at the rugged landscape that surrounded me. Somewhere to the west, homosexual and drug-users were "partying" in San Francisco. To the east, degenerates and crack-fiends would be doing the same in New York city. But not here. Here was calm, and quiet. As I smoked another Lucky Strike, I glanced up at the stars, and saw the constellation I'd pointed out to Freedom last night.

I stared up at Reagan, twinkling in the black night, and a single tear rolled down my cheek. I stayed there like that for some time.

---

Anyway, what I'm saying is that Democrats are politically correct pussies, and that all non-whites will vote for Obama, and that everyone should vote for Rick Santorum. Rah-rah-Republicans!

Thank you, and God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.

- Oakvale.

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