Washington's Birthday

Dear George Washington,

Happy Birthday! I can’t believe you’re really 275? Because you look far too good—you can't tell a lie-- but you must be lying about your age since you look younger than 200.

When I look in my wallet I see you on the dollar, on the quarter, and on my driver’s license. My state is even named after you and the silhouette of you wigged-head is on all the highway signs.

Not to mention the nation’s capitol and about half of its elementary schools are called Washington. When I tried to spray-paint graffiti on Mt. Rushmore this summer, I couldn’t help but sense your presence, like you were almost there, looking at me with disapproval.

What I’m saying is I think of you all the time.

That’s why I wonder what you’d think of the country you started all these years later. Our culture is in decline with modern teenagers and their violent video games; and their loud raps; and of course their crass Founding Fathers Erotic Fiction:

George Washington looked up from the steaming hot-tub, chest glistening in the moonlight. He was strong for a gentleman-plantation owner with surprisingly well-muscled back and shoulders.

He called out to Thomas Jefferson, who was working late into the night with his smooth, sinewy arms scrawling his ink quill across early drafts for the new nation's Contitution.

"Tom, the Constitutional Convention is not for another week hence. Why don’t you dally a bit and take a dip with me? The water’s fine and I’ve got something I need you to ratify."

If this pop-culture filth doesn’t signify out nation’s moral decay, I just don't know what does.

Sincerely appalled,
Paul