BOOMers- by the mere timing of our birth, we’re privileged to celebrate 2 of America’s significant birthdays, numbers 200 and 250.
In 1976, we had quite the party. We drove to our celebrations in craptastic cars that were only allowed to drive 55 MPH (the National speed limit) because we had failed to embrace energy independence. We lived at the whim of OPEC. We were still polluting our waterways and skies, but we knew that was changing for the better. Our biggest cities were decaying and bankrupt. They still are because people turn to the (generally speaking) dumbest class of people- politicians-for solutions.
In ’76, only Dick Tracy could communicate through his wristwatch. Today, we all can, if we choose. Amazing!
There’s been lots of amazing this past half-century- so much so, and I have to say this- we’re spoiled. While many of us love our country, and appreciate all the modern conveniences, there are way too many Americans grumbling about America’s shortcomings- like living here is some kind of nightmare.
While legacy media loves to amplify the unhappy, an unexpected group has come along to RAVE about how great this country is- soccer fans!
I present the World Cup Visitor’s Survival Guide for Whiny Locals.
Picture this: It’s 2026, the World Cup is in full swing across gleaming American stadiums, and the air is thick with vuvuzelas, regret, and the faint smell of overpriced IPA. Foreign fans have descended like locusts—Brazilians in canary yellow, Brits in ironic sombreros, Argentines still arguing that Maradona was robbed by God himself. And everywhere they go, they’re watching spoiled Americans do what we do best: complain. “These stadium seats are too cushy,” moans Chad from Chicago, shifting his ample frame. “My lumbar support is too supportive. “Next to him, a grinning Senegalese supporter named Amadou stares like he’s witnessing a miracle. “Brother, in Dakar the ‘seats’ are concrete benches that double as grills in the sun. We bring our own shade and pray for clouds. You have air conditioning so cold it could preserve a woolly mammoth. And free Wi-Fi! In my village, Wi-Fi is a guy named Moussa with good reception if the goats don’t block the signal.”Chad blinks. Amadou continues the beatdown.
“You complain the beer lines are long? At home, we queue for three hours for bread that costs a day’s wage. Here? $14 for a plastic cup of something called ‘craft lager’ that tastes like it was brewed by depressed hipsters. But you have twenty choices! In my country, the choice is ‘warm’ or ‘warmer.’
The reminders come fast and merciless. An English lad named Baz, fresh from a Premier League pub where “atmosphere” means passive-aggressive tutting, wanders into an American tailgate. He’s greeted by a sea of grills the size of compact cars, mountains of brisket, and enough Bud Light to float a destroyer. “Mate,” Baz says, eyes wide, “you’ve got parking lots bigger than our entire stadium back home. And this food! I asked for ‘a bit of barbecue,’ and they gave me half a cow wearing a cowboy hat.”
The American, let’s call him Kyle, sighs. “Yeah, but the traffic getting here was brutal.” Baz nearly drops his ribs. “Traffic? You have roads. Proper motorways that don’t dissolve when it rains. In London, a light drizzle turns the M25 into a canoeing event. Here I drove 400 miles, stopped at a Buc-ee’s, and bought a brisket sandwich the size of my torso, clean toilets with more marble than Buckingham Palace, and fireworks for no reason. Your country is ridiculous. Amazingly ridiculous”.
Over in the food court, a group of Japanese fans is having a spiritual experience. “The portions!” one whispers reverently, staring at a plate of nachos that could feed a Sumo stable. “In Tokyo, this would cost 8,000 yen and be arranged like art. Here? They just dump cheese on chips like it’s the apocalypse and they’re clearing inventory. I love it!
The American nearby, scrolling on his phone, mutters, “Yeah, but the lines for the bathroom…”A Mexican fan named Diego, who once waited in line for water during a heatwave, just laughs. “Amigo, your bathrooms have doors that lock. And toilet paper thicker than my abuela’s tortillas. In some stadiums I’ve visited, you get a hose and a prayer. Stop complaining and embrace your destiny: you live in the land of unlimited refills. Do you know what freedom really is? Asking for more Coke and them saying ‘yes’ without charging extra. We tell our kids bedtime stories about this.”
The cultural exchange gets better.
Europeans discover American customer service and lose their minds. A French tourist named Pierre complains about slow service at a restaurant. The waiter, smiling like a game show host, brings him a new entree on the house. Pierre’s brain short-circuits. “In Paris, if I complain they spit in the escargot and call me a peasant. Here they apologize and give me free cheesecake the size of a hubcap. What sorcery is this?” Even the infrastructure gets worshipped. A Dutch cyclist named Hans rents a car and drives on actual highways without potholes that could swallow bicycles. “You have lanes! Marked lanes! In Amsterdam we have canals and existential dread. Your grocery stores are so big I got lost between the cereal aisle and the pharmacy. I found oat milk with 47 flavors. Forty-seven! We have milk, and sometimes it’s not spoiled”.
The Americans, slowly defrosting from their cocoon of entitlement, start to see it. One particularly jaded millennial named Taylor gripes about “late-stage capitalism” while wearing $200 sneakers.
America isn’t perfect. But during World Cup season, the world shows up to remind us: it’s pretty damn close. Now pass the unlimited refills and shut up.
World Cup soccer fans- thank you for running up the score on our behalf.
Happy 250!
Greg Budell has lived in Montgomery for 20 years. A 50+ year veteran of radio, TV and writing, Greg hosts the Newstalk 93.1FM Morning Show with Rich Thomas and Jay Scott, 6-9 AM Monday – Friday. He returns weekday afternoons from 3-6 PM for Happy Hour with Pamela Dubuque and a variety of sidekicks. His favorite topic is life! Greg can be reached at gregbudell@aol.com.