it out. A shiny gold trumpet. “Are you ready for your aural exam?” he asked. “Let’s see if you really hate America.” He started to play “Taps” on his trumpet while a slideshow of the Tomb of the Unknown Solider started on a screen behind him. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It’s not that sad. WHO IS HE? HIS FAMILY DOESN’T EVEN KNOW! I felt the tears starting to form, but I held them back as the officer played his final note. “Quite impressive,” the officer said, “but you’ll never pass level two.” He whipped out a microphone as Lady Gaga came out from behind a corner. He handed her the microphone and an American flag lowered from the ceiling. Every player of both the Carolina Panthers and Denver Broncos rose up from a platform in the floor. “Don’t place your hand on your heart,” the officer told me. Lady Gaga began, “Ohhhh say can you see—” And see I could. I felt the muscles in my right arm tighten. My biceps started to visibly tremble. Don’t do it. Don’t place your hand on the heart. America is a suck. Lady Gaga isn’t singing the most beautiful rendition of “The Star
Spangled Banner” you’ve ever heard. Broncos quarterback Peyton Manning walked over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder and whispered using the tune of the Nationwide Insurance theme, “Put your hand/up on your heart.” I felt my arm move and I had to push it back with my left hand. A horde of puppies all dressed as Uncle Sam ran into the room. “For the land of the free—“ Gaga continued. My left hand couldn’t hold my right hand down any longer. Why do I masturbate with my right hand so much…so…so strong. The right hand slowly started to rise, but before it did, Chris Martin from Coldplay came running in singing “Uptown Funk.” “CHRIS NO!” screamed the officer. My right arm immediately relaxed and everyone booed Chris Martin. He cried, stole a puppy and ran out the door. “I guess you passed,” said the officer with a sigh. Peyton Manning then picked me up in his tender white hands and threw me over the border right into a chair located in my wife’s new home. She looked at me and began to cry tears of joy. “I’ll get the cinnamon sugar!” she exclaimed. Viva la Mehico.
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