Humor by Jen Lancaster
There's a growing problem in this country and I can't turn the other way anymore.
I'll remain in denial no longer.
Why? Because I'm tired of being encroached upon, I'm angry about being undermined and I'm sick of being mocked. I can't take it another minute, so I'm here to give voice to a movement that's quietly but surely building momentum.
I implore you, my fellow countrymen, my brethren across these great states of ours, to help me put a stop to this madness. Unite with me in my cause. Let's join in -- past purple mountain majesty, above the fruited plain, and from sea to shining sea -- to band together to quiet those voices filling us with self-doubt and crushing the very dreams upon which we built this nation.
I'm talking, of course, about snarky British hosts on American television programs.
For years, our collective self-esteem was crushed by a certain smart-mouth Brit who had the audacity to tell the least-talented among us the cold, hard truth in no uncertain terms. What right did Simon Cowell possess to so cruelly discourage the tone-deaf, the pitchy and the flat? I mean, he's not even American; how could he possibly judge who might constitute our idol? And what do the Brits know about music anyway? Granted, they gave us The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and The Smiths, but the Spice Girls singlehandedly destroyed their credibility.
Fortunately, order was returned to our tidy little universe when Mr. Cowell exited the show, making way for a doddering Steven Tyler to sexually harass the better-endowed female contestants while Jennifer Lopez (triple threat AND national treasure, thank you very much) sweetly and serenely provides the kind of nonsensical-yet-uplifting feedback we'd so missed from Paula Abdul.
Sadly, whenever we remove one head of the beast, three more sprout up in its place. Seems like every time I turn around, Gordon Ramsay's right there, smug and overbearing in his stern chef's whites, berating good, honest American cooks for deep frying every item on the menu. By the way, you know who doesn't indulge in an occasional deep-fried candy bar? Queen Elizabeth, that's who.
Of course, there's Jo Frost, otherwise known as the Supernanny, filling our heads with nonsense about "consistently disciplining" our children and "behaving like the parent." I simply cannot stand for such blasphemy!
Iconic Larry King passed his microphone to Piers Morgan, who not only has the nerve to judge exactly which American's Got Talent, but also stole the title of Donald Trump's "Celebrity Apprentice" from rightful owner Trace Adkins. And why Piers Morgan? Were we plum out of old, suspender-clad, bad-haired serial-monogamists in this country? We've now got to outsource this job?
And, in the final insult, how dare Ricky Gervais tease the most sacred among us, the most beloved, those shining faces that launched a thousand tabloids and who work damn hard anywhere from six to eight weeks a year to earn their multimillion dollar paychecks?
No, sir. Not in MY America.
So this is it, our call to action. Join me in rising up against our snotty British overloads. Let's tell the ghost of old King George that they don't know us, they don't belong and in the sage words of philosopher/poet/patriot Dee Snyder, we're not gonna take it anymore.
We're going to wrest control from those smarmy Earl Grey-sipping, Union Jack-waving, soul-stomping Limeys once and for all and toss each of them in Boston Harbor like so many barrels of the
And we'll call our new revolution . . . the Tea Party!
Wait, that name's already being used?
OK, fine, we'll come up with something because that's what we do around here.
God bless the USA,
Oh, and P.S.: Canada? Don't be so quick to laugh. We're sending them your way next.
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