The Ugly American

During my trip to Scotland last month I noticed some people staring at me. Was it my open zipper? Did I forget to shave? Maybe it was my magnificent flowing blond hair. Or could it have been that maybe they recognized me from the many TV shows and films I've been in. But they weren't smiling at me. They were making stupifide faces. Faces you'd see after someone ate a moth eaten moldy sweater, or a bad brick. It wasn't me. It was where I was from. Even though I tried to look like a hip European dude, black socks, yellow teeth, I guess it didn't take. It was written all over my face. I am the ugly American.


by Richard Crepeau