In the Beginning...

Something told me I wasn't in Kansas anymore. The drifting waft of real ale and gangrenous smoke enveloped my every being... or was it just me passing out? Dunno.

I do know that I arrived to this little English village to hails and woes about Americans-- how they terrorized the local female fauna during 'the war' (but the 'fauna' will tell you otherwise). And yet others spoke about all the free rationing they bartered off American servicemen (who would've thought Spam would become a delicacy?) I'm often greeted by, "From where do you hail from?" in an effort to extort their accent, then proceeded with long exasperated tales of their own American adventures. All this before I even get an introduction.

"I'm gonna need a backup", I think to myself. "Another pint please."

Take the current elections-- seems the villagers know more about my country's electoral progression than I do. "Who would want to elect a man who's name sounds like Bin Laden?" demands the village's self-proclaimed burgermeister (spelling intended). He's one that never asks-- only tells you things. His repertoire consists of more statements than queries. Not a day goes by where a comment about Americans passes my ears.

Yep Toto, we ain't in no Kansas no 'mo.