Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Paul Simon Graceland
 Kim Wilde Kids in America
5000 miles you say? Excuse me for pointing out the plainly obvious here but that’s one helluva trek to reach the promised land, is it not? We’re talking polar opposite sides of the planet far; even Mark fucking Twain would’ve baulked at the prospect of circumnavigating the globe to that extent, regardless of any whimsy entailed. That’s a whole different freaking hemisphere and the equivalent of eight million fully grown adders all tied together like a snake-skin handkerchief, yet still potentially falling a few serpents short of reaching its intended destination. Indeed, there’s no bona fide certainty that it even exists at all, such is the sheer magnitude of distance between these two points. Up for some more perspective? Then try this for size – if you chose to travel via pogo stick then it would require at least ten billion bounces to arrive at your destination and you can round that up to a dozen if you elect to make the trip on a space hopper.
You could sail it I suppose. The boat would need to be built with sufficient deck space to house around 7200 beef jerkies but, so long as this is granted, I’d say you’d be all set. I might give it a miss however as the probability of being swept under by vicious currents is a little too heightened for my liking. Fuck it, I’m taking a jet, all 6″1 of me huddled up in economy class. The UK has lost a little of its appeal now anyhow. I reckon maybe I outgrew it or we drifted apart; something like that. But on the upside – I’m Coming to America baby. Rootin’ tootin’ and with six-shooter shootin’. The land of the free always had a rather splendid ring to it. Hell, I’ve been to San Francisco, Las Vegas, the Big Apple and the Sunshine State in the past four years and I have to say that the prospect of living in the US of A makes my winkle stiffen.
5000 miles, sheesh kebab! That’ a whole lot of air miles in one fell swoop. That’s what is going to be going down very soon as I return for the first of two planned busman’s holidays in 2014. By this time next year I shall be looking to relocate, wave ta-ta to my homeland as it was never really that all along. It was merely my birthplace. My gut has always told me what I need to do and the problem was I never bloody listened. Eventually, the nickel dropped and it became more transparent than a crystal jellyfish on Meth. There was a reason why I shed that solitary tear when Apollo Creed hit the canvas after that rousing rendition of Living in America. It wasn’t even his stars and stripes shorts or that gloriously ridiculous hat, although they were helpful. No, it was because of what he represented.
I used to contemplate what my first move would be should I ever relocate to the US. Would I plunge my dick into a warm stateside apple pie? Yes, I would likely get all up in that crust. How about education? Well, I would likely major in History X and spend my trimester learning how to curb stomp a burglar. Beats Florence Nightingale, that’s for sure. I may even take a course on how to make an American quilt. One thing is for damned sure, I would take over a bundle of carrier bags and watch them dance around in the wind. All of the above pursuits just make more sense when situated in the United States of America.
It is a well documented fact that our American cousins just love the English dialect so I would choose my prose carefully, using terms like “toodle pip” and “spiffing” wherever possible. I’d don a monocle and brass pocket watch, whilst riding around the streets of Los Angeles on my Penny Farthing. If I passed a vagrant suffering from a bout of influenza then I would offer them a handkerchief to blow their nose. It would be vital for me to believe I were bringing something exclusive to the table see, maybe a rucksack crammed with bone china crockery and Earl Grey tea-bags for a nice mug of lemon brew. I’d also pack a tray of Mrs. Dittherington-Smythe’s home-baked buttered scones which she prepared for the village fete and pass them around for all to share.
I would also adjust my language to keep me in line with the Joneses. The term fanny means something far different when uttering on that side of the Atlantic. In the US it denotes a rectal bouquet whereas, to us flat-landers it is the term associated with one’s frontal lady garden. Pants, on the other hand, may mean undergarments in London but in the land of opportunity it is merely an outside layer of clothing. So I would be wary of informing another of my intention of getting all up in their pants and pounding their fanny as it would likely cause severe befuddlement and attract the wrong kind of suitor. Of course, I would make sure I bring something to the table. Minge and flange may hold very little weight over there but, with this little rascal flying the flag and having my wicked way, they would become part of everyone’s daily lingual diet.
I have spent the past few months as The English Patient, suffering in silence in spite of our more accessible but deeply flawed national health system. Last time I checked I packed a penis which means I have no intention of going for any full-service check-ups. That’s how we are, should men be ravaged by one testicular tumor or the other, we would rather not be made privy to the Intel. Males are content simply to slap on some nut ointment and await its blackening. Thus, it would be a seamless transition bringing my weary shell to your shores.
Where would my travels take me I wonder. I’m wholly bemused by the number of active states (50-52 suggests there are potentially two which are upwardly mobile and therefore impossible for Google Earth to pin down). I’d visit as many as I could get my bony white ass to but not a la Forrest Gump. Fuck jogging, I’d bag myself a lowered Corvette and drive-by each state, stopping only for scheduled gas (a term which, in England, denotes a bout of flatulence). En route I would attempt a potentially lethal zombie walk across Route 66 and, once in Vegas, I would remember that what happens there, stays there. Any coinage collected from slot machines would be used to purchase buffalo wings and I’d stop off at the Grand Canyon to share out the scones I spoke of earlier.
Keeper definitely has a red-blooded American inside him and please refrain from snickering to yourselves. I’m still not convinced as to where this infatuation started. Maybe Randall ‘Tex’ Cobb snatched my anal virginity whilst slumbering or maybe I just ate too many southern fried chips (sorry – fries) as a bairn. One things for sure however, I’m coming to America baby. I’m that Englishman in New York, you know – the one who has his toast done on one side. By the way I drink both tea and coffee my dear. What am I thinking? Make it a frothy latte and tell that Drago bitch I’m ready for him.
Sinning in America,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014