Ugly Americans and other atrocities on the high seas

Well I have, unfortunately, come home A-OK. No pirates, no shipwrecks, no snakebites or jaguar attacks in the rainforest. Ocean liners are singularly tame. Seriously, I think that body of water we were traversing could hardly be called the ocean, since you couldn't even feel the boat moving. Anyway, I have seen many things in my travels which have only further kindled the fire of my love for Americans into a blazing inferno. Bless their pointy little heads, the dears, they ride about in an oblivious stupor upon the ocean blue, eyes glazed, in the deepest of trances because of the fact that they have been spending days doing no more than feeding constantly and lying out in the sun. That sounds like the lifestyle of some sort of mushroom or sea cucumber, not a human being. They shop on the ship and they shop on the shore, not to mention the massive amounts of money that they spent to even get this choicest of vacation opportunities to begin with. However, in spite of the gobs of cash they spent for this opportunity, nothing seems to satisfy this weird hybrid version of human-mushroom. They complain about the food, they complain about the service, they complain about the entertainment, they complain about the excursions, they complain about the accomodations. If there is something in existence within five miles of their personhood, they complain about it. Of course, that doesn't stop them from consuming said goods and services with all the satisfaction and verve of one who is completely satisfied. Then, on said excursions, they journey into foreign lands, unfortunately forced to pass by the "shacks" of the natives ("They're shacks, that's the only thing you could call them" even though those shacks are not actually the worst housing made of corrugated tin and other found materials but the more respectable cinderblock versions--and what gives these cultural imperialists the right to say that those people aren't happy with their "shacks?") So, on said excursions they view with mourning the utterly woeful poverty of those who are our central American neighbors and geographical children (via the Monroe Doctrine) and then they get back onto our big boat and lament this terrible state of affairs over our meal of filet mignon. "If only," they sob into their champagne, "there was some way we could help these poor, poor people. If only we had enough money to help out somehow. But alas, we no more than upper-middle class Americans with tight belts ourselves (Starbucks only three times a week), and there is nothing that can be done, please pass the lobster." Truly, these goodly Americans are victims of having hearts that are too big and pocketbooks that are too small.

Who knows why peoples of other lands despise these kind Americans? They patronize their shuttles in large droves with their big fat cigars smoking up the whole interior and are willing to purchase their Corona necklaces so they don't have to waste a hand holding their beers. Then when they come back to the boat they are quite loud and drunk and jovial as ducks. They are quite warm and friendly to the local women as well. Surely it must remain a mystery to us all why the good people of this land are so persecuted abroad.

(You know, my dear good friend Mr. Hoshaw also told us it was very difficult to write sarcasm effectively. I never really did understood why.)