Dear Amerika,
It's me Nicky. You know, the genderfuck gonzo raconteur with all the knives in her purse.
Or perhaps you know me by my Indian name; That-Bitch.
That bitch with all the unsolicited opinions.
That bitch with the prick beneath her macramé skirt.
That bitch who never learned to shut the fuck up.
Even after eleven years in a parochial gulag the size of a Canal Street sweatshop.
That bitch that all the priests took turns on behind the rectory.
That bitch who vomited up obscenities in between their rancid cocks.
That bitch that the Vatican smashed into a dozen dissociative dykes with razor blades strapped to their thighs.
That bitch who never stood for the Pledge of Allegiance.
That bitch who never learned to wait her turn.
That bitch who wasn't really going to burn the school down, I swear it.
That bitch with all the drawings of men with big guns and no faces.
That bitch who just wanted to know what the inside of the girl's room looked like, honest.
That bitch who had too many sluts for friends that she never tried to fuck.
That bitch who took all the pills and read all the banned books and never tried and only lip-synced the hymns and went crazy after graduation and didn't leave the house for a decade and only came out to Queer the children and arm them to the teeth and still isn't trying.
You know, that bitch with the dirty pink hair. Yeah, that's the one.
But this letter isn't really about me. This letter is about you, Amerika.
You and your big fucking day. Your 250th birthday.
Where has all the time gone?
Where did all the Indians go?
Where have all the flowers gone?
It seems like just yesterday you were lynching Turtle Island with your training bra and just look at you now!
You have become such a handsome and heinous colossus over the centuries.
How many bases is it now? In how many countries?
Please accept my sincerest condolences for your recent spate of failed regime changes.
You can't win them all.
And hey, you still got to kill most of their children.
That was always your favorite part after all, wasn't it?
Kicking back in the iron bosom of some floating steel archipelago loaded with led.
Firing off million-dollar phallic ordinances into elementary school playgrounds and then shrugging it all off with, "Who me? Couldn't be."
Remember My Lai? Remember Ludlow? Remember Hiroshima?
Remember East Timor, Kent State, Attica, Fallujah, Watts, Waco, Belgrade, Ruby Ridge, Cobbs Creek, Grenada and Wounded Knee?
So many good times.
So many schoolyards littered with bright brass shells that twinkled like stardust beneath a blood moon.
So many tiny caskets wrapped like Christmas presents in foreign flags and soiled ten-dollar bills.
So many lonesome burial grounds on windswept plateaus.
Verdant gardens of juvenile ghosts, forgotten but not lost, buried but not dead.
Where did all those good times go?
Maybe they're being paid back to you in squadrons of exploding paper planes thrown by starving heretics with broken fingers.
I'm sorry, I don't mean to be glib.
But I didn't invent karma either.
That was some other some-bitch with six arms and sixty personalities.
I really am sorry about Donald Trump.
I know that isn't the knight in white shining armor you always dreamt of carrying you across the Rubicon and molesting you to climax on a bed of pilfered coins and thorned roses.
It must be so disappointing realizing that you've peaked in the stubby arms of a bronzer-greased pedophile whispering the words to elevator music in your ear while he gently grabs you by the pussy.
It must be tragic knowing that this is how it ends.
Not with a Reich or a crown or Camelot or even Disneyland.
But with a monster truck rally over the ruins of Ozymandias.
With your Zionist dauphins waiting in the cheap seats with loaded Carcano's.
Ready and willing to bum rush the show like you did to your royal masters 250 years ago.
Oh, you were so ravishing back in those days.
Those good old days.
Those all-or-nothing days.
When every slave master with a musket and a powdered whig was a revolutionary waxing philosophic about rights and liberty and democracy for some.
When a cabal of handsome young English aristocrats decided to ditch the King, go rogue, and declare themselves to be a nation.
When empires became colonies, colonies became republics, and republics became empires.
Everything seemed possible and nothing but unvanquished soil lied ahead.
But none of it was ever really real. Even you must realize that by now.
It was a phantasy. The grandiose fever dreams of a virile master race.
It was always temporary.
It was always just a matter of time before we became the Redcoats and some other dream team of sexy upstart psychopaths with jagged smiles pulled some train on us the way we've been pulling a train on the rest of the world for a quarter of a millennia.
But we'll always have the lies.
The mythology we fell for beneath the hellish glow of rockets' red glare over the baseball stadium.
The pilgrims and the noble savages and the grateful freemen.
Honest Abe and Manifest Destiny and the Good War.
The shining city on the hill and the responsibility to protect and the indispensable nation blowing up the world one sandbox at a time.
For freedom and feminism and Coca-Cola and apple pie and capitalism and shopping malls and Marlboros and Hollywood and Haliburton and Raytheon and Boeing and Bed, Bath & Beyond.
But I didn't type up this rant just to kick dirt in your eye, Amerika. Honestly, I didn't.
In fact, in spite of it all, in spite of all the horror and slavery and genocide and graveyards packed with tiny caskets, I still love you Amerika. Or at least part of me does.
I loved getting shitfaced on moonshine and losing what was left of my innocence to colored girls in the backs of stollen Cadillacs at the drive-in movie theater.
I loved dancing alone in my mother's sundress to my father's Nancy Sinatra records.
I loved rolling joints laced with angel dust in the women's room at CBGBs with Debbie Harry and Patti Smith.
I loved gangsta rap and gun shows and doing the twist.
I loved shooting tin cans and dropping acid and speeding through the desert after midnight.
I loved getting high and breaking all your stupid fucking rules.
I loved Bacon's Rebellion and Stonewall and the Seminole Nation and Max's Kansas City and the Factory and the Sunset Strip and the Forty-Deuce.
I loved Thomas Paine and Lucy Parsons and Abby Hoffman and Little Richard and Malcolm X and Judy Garland and Wendy O. Williams and Allen Ginsberg and Russell Means.
I loved you, Amerika, in all your filthy naked glory.
But enough is enough, and 250 years is enough.
So, I wrote you a letter, Amerika.
I wrote you this letter.
To ask you to stop.
To stop dropping bombs on Third World villages.
To stop raping children like prisoners in compulsory schools.
To stop raping prisoners like children in your glorified concentration camps.
To stop building robots that kill.
To stop building robots that anything.
To stop drawing ungovernable borders in the fucking desert.
To stop paying Israel to replace you when you're gone.
But most of all just to fucking stop.
I love you Amerika, but the world can't take another 250 days of this shit, let alone another 250 years.
If you love me, if you've ever loved any of us, impeach everyone, defund everything, hand your nukes over to Palestine and your guns to the homeless.
Because this country, this world, and That-Bitch desperately needs you to die.
Peace, Love and Empathy,
Your bastard daughter,
Nicky Reid
Soundtrack: Songs that Influenced this Soliloquy
* Awful by Hole
* Where Have All the Flowers Gone by Pete Seeger
* Cherry Bomb by the Runaways
* Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangsta by Ghetto Boys
* There Won't Be Many Coming Home by Roy Orbison
* Sex Bomb by Flipper
* Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) by Nancy Sinatra
* Cop Killer by Body Count
* Dreaming by Blondie
* Dive by Nirvana
* The End by the Doors
* Venice Bitch by Lana Del Rey
* American Music by Violent Femmes
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