Happy 250th birthday, America. King George III here. You probably know me from the one song in Hamilton where nobody’s rapping because, well, I’m a basically 300-year-old English dude, and trying to rap is already embarrassing enough for anyone named “George.”
But enough about Broadway. In case you get your history from ChatGPT, I was also King of Great Britain for nearly 60 years, during which time I managed to lose 13 colonies and a war of independence. That level of ineptitude would get most people fired from running a Taco Bell.
Thankfully, I was a king and not a shift manager, so the only person who could fire me was God. The closest thing you have to that is Nick Saban.
Anyway, I’m here to wish America a very British, passive-aggressive happy 250th birthday as you punch up your patriotism with hot dogs and fireworks. I mean, technically, all you did was tell me you were independent in 1776. Which is kind of like when a 7-year-old says he’s tired of doing chores and is moving, completely on his own, to Sesame Street.
It was cute. But I didn’t grant you independence until seven years later, when your courageous, musket-wielding, hard-fighting patriots finally got us to skedaddle. Or, in the case of Boston, your seven years of telling us Larry Bird was the real King, until it became so intolerable that we moved to Florida.
Where, actually, it was worse.
Finally, in 1783, you came to your senses and, through a haze of pipe smoke, signed the Treaty of Paris. You got your independence on the condition that you never use the metric system and make up a new word for “football.” We agreed to keep Molson-rich Canada as long as we didn’t also have to keep Ohio.
Speaking of Canada, as a birthday gesture, I’m forgiving you for that whole “attacking the border” thing you did in 1812, too. We all know how that late-night poutine craving hits, and sometimes you’ve just got to invade Quebec.
Also, I apologize for burning down your White House, since I realize that if we’d just waited a couple of hundred years, your uniparty would have graciously torn it down for us.
In case you forgot, we ended that war with another treaty, and you were so excited to play us to a draw, your entire country celebrated a win. I see you still do this during the World Cup. Your Olympic shooting team, however, remains annoyingly competent.
Since then, I must admit you’ve done a pretty good job as a country. You helped us out in a couple of really big wars. You built a superpower. You invented the McRib sandwich. You had Travis Pastrana and his merry Nitro Circus bros popping wheelies at the UFC Freedom 250 Fest on the White House lawn.
But I’ll remind you that global domination is easy when you have airplanes and cruise missiles. Conquer half the planet with nothing but rum and syphilis, then come and talk to me.
Regardless, happy 250th, America! Even though, by my calculations, you’re only about 243.
And since you seem to have third-graders getting Botox now, you should take any excuse to say you’re younger. Word of advice, America, enjoy your 240s while you can. Once you hit 250, you start forgetting you put on socks.
Looking forward to seeing how the new “supposedly privately funded” $600 million White House ballroom will turn out! In 1773, the tea tax was 3 pence per pound and look what kinda mayhem that caused.
With Warm Regards,
George R*
* “R” stands for Rex, the Latin word for King, because even in exile, King George III believes in proper branding.
