America felt too overwhelming for the Denmarkian queen, Freja.
Freja was used to… whatever happens in Denmark. Probably lots of pot smoking and sledding and Hamlet.
Freja felt America was too sprawling, like that Arcade Fire song. Freja wasn’t even sure if Arcade Fire was from America. Things were that confusing for her.
“Maybe I should just go back to Denmark and play Claudius in Hamlet,” Freja said to Arizona as they relaxed, intertwined on the sofa.
“No! We have our beautiful mansion here,” Arizona protested, “Plus I read Hamlet in high school and I’m pretty sure they mentioned that Claudius had bad cheekbones.”
“Aw,” Freja responded, finding it cute that Arizona went to high school. She is so full of surprises. Like that surprise about being a pregnant lesbian.
“I now exactly how to get you to love America,” Arizona said. She was named after a state so she felt a certain responsibility towards this country.
2 days later
Still laying in each others arms on the sofa, Arizona asked Freja, “Remember when you said you hated America?”
“Zona, you make me sound militant,” Freja said. She never claimed to “hate America”.
“Well, you are sort of militant when we play Zero Dark Thirty angry interrogator vs. sexy terrorist roleplay,” Arizona said with a sly smile.
Freja purred at this, but the moment is interrupted by the doorbell.
“That must be your America coach!” Arizona shrieked, excited, then ran to the door.
Ten minutes later, after walking across FrejArizona’s palatial mansion, Arizona arrived with Freja’s new coach on all things American.
“Freja, I’d like you to meet Lana Del Rey.”
Lana Del Rey extended her clawed hand to Freja.
Freja looked up at Lana and smiled.
In an airey, distant voice, Lana cooed, “Freja, I feel responsible to bathe you in Americana.
Freja hoped “Americana” was a brand of bubble bath. It sounded nice.
Before Freja knew it, she was swept into the back of a black convertible.
Lana’s clawed fingers gripped the wheel and they blasted down the highway.
“Here,” Lana said, passing back a can of Pepsi, “Drink this.”
Freja grabbed the open soft drink and took a sip, “It’s good,” she said.
”That’s what my vagina tastes like,” Lana yelled back to her.
Freja took a bigger sip. “Pepsi is great,” Freja announced.
”What do you want to know about America?” Lana asked.
”Tell me what America means to you,” Freja requested, holding the can of Lana’s vagina and watching the American landscape pass by in a blur.
Lana stared out towards the open road and monologued, “America is a poem of the free, written on the back of an eagle. I was a lost girl, hugging the map filled with peaks and valleys. The roads, these bright black snakes, were build by calloused men, who worked hard for their women. When they came home, they loved even harder than they worked. It was a time without rules, and I was a referee without a whistle. As I traveled, it was both the kindness and the sinister nature of man that provided me a home and cradled my overly hairsprayed Jackie-O hairdo. My pitch was not perfect- like an aging Yankee hanging onto once greatness, but the crowd didn’t care. They came to see me, not a strike. But strike we did, it was our right and we protected our right, we fought for our right, we stood up for our right, we sat down for our right and, always, we were American.”
There was a pause in the convertible as only the wind spoke.
“What the fuck was that?” Freja yelled up to Lana.
“I don’t know, lets go find some black guys to make out with,” Lana suggested.
“I’m a lesbian,” Freja pointed out.
“No, you’re anti-American,” Lana said definitively.
Freja realized, as she cruised down the sunny roads of this great country with a highly cosmetically retouched pop star in the front seat, that this is why America is great; your vagina could become a beverage, your opinions didn’t have to make sense and your girlfriend will be waiting at home for you, ready to do some sexy waterboarding roleplay with you.
***LEGAL NOTICE: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NONE OF THIS SHIT REALLY HAPPENED. LANA HAS PROBABLY SAID THAT STUFF BEFORE, BUT MAYBE SHE DIDN’T, WHO KNOWS. CERTAINLY NOT ME, NOR DO I CLAIM TO KNOW****
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