The United States is the tackiest of the planet, that guy who arrives at the international party wearing a shiny plaid suit with a flashing LED star and stripe tie, huge mirrored sunglasses, a fake gold watch that weighs more than his arm, and a sweet perfume that fills the entire hall. He thinks he's killing it, that everyone envies his style, but in reality, people just whisper: “My God, look what has come here again.”
He talks loudly, gestures exaggeratedly, interrupts everyone to tell for the thousandth time how he is the richest, the strongest, the most handsome of the night. He plays country rock music at full volume while others prefer something more discreet, throws dollar bills on the table to impress, and when someone criticizes his musical taste or garish look, he makes a mortal offended face: “You are envious! This is freedom of expression, baby!”. Then he goes around spreading that the party is only good because of him, that without the American VIP presence, the event would be a total failure.
At the end of the night, the tacky guy is already a bit drunk on exceptionalism, stumbling in his own cowboy boots, knocking over other people's glasses, but still convinced that he is the center of attention. The other guests – elegant Europeans, discreet Asians, more laid-back Latinos – exchange knowing glances, chuckle quietly, and think the same thing: “Let him think he is the king of the ball… tomorrow we continue the party normally, with or without the tacky show made in USA.” Because, deep down, everyone knows: the world spins very well without needing to applaud the shiny suit that screams “Look at me!” all the time.
He talks loudly, gestures exaggeratedly, interrupts everyone to tell for the thousandth time how he is the richest, the strongest, the most handsome of the night. He plays country rock music at full volume while others prefer something more discreet, throws dollar bills on the table to impress, and when someone criticizes his musical taste or garish look, he makes a mortal offended face: “You are envious! This is freedom of expression, baby!”. Then he goes around spreading that the party is only good because of him, that without the American VIP presence, the event would be a total failure.
At the end of the night, the tacky guy is already a bit drunk on exceptionalism, stumbling in his own cowboy boots, knocking over other people's glasses, but still convinced that he is the center of attention. The other guests – elegant Europeans, discreet Asians, more laid-back Latinos – exchange knowing glances, chuckle quietly, and think the same thing: “Let him think he is the king of the ball… tomorrow we continue the party normally, with or without the tacky show made in USA.” Because, deep down, everyone knows: the world spins very well without needing to applaud the shiny suit that screams “Look at me!” all the time.