Manifest Destiny
In the Courtyard Tea Room in Copley Square, a British man leaned forward, sipping his curried carrot soup from a white china bowl like it was 1776. “Why,” he asked the American across the table, “do you lot always talk like you invented penicillin, the jet engine, the World Wide Web, and brunch all at once?”
The American grinned, tipping his baseball cap. “Well, buddy, from a bunch of dusty colonies, we built this: industrial might, tech empires, and enough firepower to redecorate the solar system. You’re welcome.”
The Brit raised an eyebrow. “Ah, yes, the classic American recipe: take Europe’s leftovers, add a dash of Manifest Destiny, and deep-fry it. But do you ever thank the Irish, the Scots, the Welsh, Canadians, or even Aussies for their contributions? Or do they just get a footnote in your national anthem?”
The American laughed. “How about Hollywood, Apple, and McDonald’s? That’s cultural exchange, pal.”
The Brit grinned. “And we gave you the English language. You’re whiffling. But I fully understand you.”
The American shrugged. “Language evolves, man. Just like empires. Yours had its turn. Now it’s ours. Pass the pepper, buddy.”
A stoic Jamaican man sitting nearby, earwigged in silence and having finished his smoked Norwegian salmon with whipped lemon ricotta and salad, stood up, stern and unamused. He looked at both men and quipped, “Y’all some dumb motherfuckers.”
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