What a transcendent masterpiece of irony it has been watching our oh-so-refined European overlords descend upon this fascist wasteland for the 2026 World Cup like Victorian explorers discovering a lost tribe that somehow invented air conditioning and unlimited ranch dressing.They’re losing their entire minds. A French influencer had a full spiritual awakening in a Buc-ee’s bathroom the size of Versailles, live-streaming herself sobbing over a wall of beef jerky varieties longer than the Champs-Élysées. “Mon Dieu…they have forty-seven flavors of jerky…and a beaver mascot!” she gasped, immediately renouncing her 35-hour work week. The Germans...yes, the same ones whose autobahns occasionally pretend to have speed limits, have been spotted doing donuts in rented Ford F-150s the size of Panzer tanks while blasting Kid Rock at volumes that register on seismographs. One was heard whispering reverently, “This…this is what peak performance feels like,” right before shotgunning a 44-ounce Mountain Dew Code Red like it was holy water. The Italians discovered Costco and immediately declared it the Eighth Wonder of the World. A Roman chef had to be physically restrained from trying to marry a 72-inch pizza and adopt an entire pallet of ranch. “Mamma mia, the samples…they just give them to you!” he wept, abandoning his Nonna’s sacred recipes for a family-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos .Even the reserved Scandinavians have gone feral. Swedes are riding mechanical bulls in cowboy hats the size of satellite dishes, screaming “Yee-haw, motherfucker!” in perfect English while chugging something called “Fireball” that would make their government-issued sadness vodka blush. The Dutch, normally high on legal weed and existential dread, have started every chant with “U-S-A!” and ended it by proposing marriage to the nearest Buc-ee’s cashier.
Meanwhile, you brave keyboard crusaders are having simultaneous aneurysms in your gender-neutral safe spaces because someone had the audacity to enjoy a country without first issuing a land acknowledgment, a trigger warning, and a carbon offset receipt. The Europeans are out here experiencing American abundance like it’s a religious conversion, and you’re still writing 4,000-word Medium essays about how a red Solo cup is settler-colonial violence. Please, keep telling us how irredeemable and terrifying this place is while actual visitors are having religious experiences at Whataburger drive-thrus and treating Walmart as their personal Louvre. The cognitive dissonance is so delicious I want to deep-fry it and dip it in your tears. With maximum theatrical eye-roll and a raised pinky, Glenn Reib
P.S. They’ll all fly home soon and resume calling us barbarians. For now, they’re one Monster Energy and mechanical bull ride away from getting “Don’t Tread on Me” tattoos. Cope in 4K, darlings
