The 1770s Were His Rebellious Years

Photo by maisonbisson / CC BY-NC-SA
Photo by maisonbisson / CC BY-NC-SA
…So, it would mean a lot to me if you could make it. After all, you were like a father to me… an older brother, a role model, a friend.

With love,
The (Very Independent) United States of America

He finished writing with a stupid, excited grin on his face. Extravagantly sealing the envelope with wax, he gave the letter a satisfied smack with a stamp he’d kept since 1760.  America’s masterpiece was set to go on a priority voyage across the Pond.

The excitement he felt imaging England, begrudgingly plodding to his mailbox with a cup of coffee in hand and old robe on, finding the letter could be likened to the excitement a child feels when imagining a prank coming to life.

This was just the first stage of America’s July 4th festivities. The second involved sitting down with a 64 oz. of Coke and reliving the glory days of the American Revolution.

——

March 22, 1765

To the British Empire (but mostly to you, England),

Uh, what gives? You know, I’m getting a little tired of all these taxes and Acts. You were kind of letting me do my own thing for a few centuries or so, and I was cool with that. I kind of liked the freedom, and I especially liked not having any stupid, dumb taxes to pay. I thought the Sugar Act and Currency Act were a little messed up, but now you’re trying to tax my stamps too? Look, I know you’re in debt from the war, but let’s be honest… you can’t really blame anyone but yourself. Or France. I guess you could blame France. That always works.

Anyway, I’m willing to talk things out like adults if you are. No need to go to war over this or anything.

Sincerely,
The Thirteen Colonies

 

——

March 5, 1770

Sitting in the snow, America tossed another snowball up before catching it and placing it in his growing pile of frozen ammo. “It’s just dumb,” he told the distracted mob around him with the tone of a sulking, irritated teen. “Britain thinks that just because they’re a big scary empire, they can go around imperializing everything and then start enforcing a bunch of rules out of nowhere.” He packed a fresh mound of snow into his palm and began forming a another ball. “Like, who does he think he is, trying to tell me how to run my life? I know he’s only doing this ‘cause he’s in a bunch of debt from fighting France and he’s taking out his anger on me. Well, screw it! I’m not gonna let mummy dearest walk all over me!”

Fueled by teen angst, he grabbed one of his snowballs and chucked it at the group of redcoats across the square. He didn’t even have time to think about what he’d done before the surrounding mob began chucking snowballs and flinging sticks after his example.

“Oh, no… No, no, no, no!” America jumped up and tried to calm the titillated, frenzied mob. “Alright, everyone, just keep cool! Let’s not throw snowballs at the armed British soldiers over there!” He tried to shout above the crowd, but the sound of gunshots sent him dropping face first into the snow. He was trampled as fights broke loose.

Later he would admit that even though he hadn’t made many mistakes in his life, throwing the snowball was one of them.

——

December 16, 1773

A very furious Brit and his fleet of armed ships gathered in the Boston Harbor.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He shouted at the expertly costumed men who’d infiltrated his tea ships.

“Uhh, nothin’ to see here! We’re just some harmless Indians, havin’ a good time. Nothin’ wrong here.”

“I know that it’s you, you bloody idiot!”

America hauled a chest of tea to the edge of the ship, shouting back, “Oh yeah? Look around, England. While we argue, three shiploads of your precious, overtaxed tea are being dumped into the harbor.”

“Massachusetts,” England began, using one of thirteen of the American’s preferred names. “I knew you could sink low, but I did not expect something like this.”

“I told you I wanted to be called America.”

“That’s the name of this continent, you wanker!”

“Hey! It’s a working title, alright? Show some respect!” Fuming a bit, the rebel lifted up his chest of tea and held it over the edge of the boat. “I’ll do it.”

England very angrily pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare!”

“What? Don’t think I’ll do it? I will!”

“Go on then!”

“I swear I’ll do it.”

“Let’s see you try, then! Or are you all bark and no bite?”

“Oooh you are pushin’ it now, old man.” To really show that he meant business, America leaned over the edge of the boat. He began shouting dramatically, “Oh no! I don’t know if I can hold it any longer! My arms are getting weak!”

“Rhode Islands, you put that down right now and stop this rubbish!”

There was a pause.

“It’s America.”

With a satisfying ploosh the chest plunged into the ocean. It was a victory for the Colonies that night, both in having gotten away with showing the British up and in having tea-flavored seafood for weeks to come.

——

August 27, 1776

America paced back and forth in front of his army, stature strong and dignified. He looked to his men and proudly presented to them a piece of parchment.

“This is the Declaration of Independence. Do any of you know what this document means?”

“Freedom!”

“Liberty!”

“Justice!”

America stopped pacing and grinned knowingly. “It means triumph, baby!” He whooped and began jumping around enthusiastically. “It means no more stupid British taxes! It means no more stupid British monopolies! It means no more stupid British redcoats in our homes and cities! This battle is ours, boys! Britain can eat dirt! England can personally kiss my independent arse!” And all the men began cheering with him.

General Washington and the Continental Army would be defeated that day. America, feeling like quite the arse himself, would assure them that the loss could not extinguish the flames of revolution, nor could it invalidate the power of John Hancock’s ballsy signature.

—-

The next morning England begrudgingly shuffled through his mail, coffee in hand. The letter was immediately recognizable with ‘You’re Invited’ snickering at him in gold, cursive lettering on the front. Folding his arms, he scoffed, “Wanker. Bollocks.”

 

Author: Allison Black

Allison is an author, nerd, and international relations major who loves bad political jokes. When she's not writing or gushing about global affairs, she's playing video games. One day she will have a Ph.D., speak Korean fluently, and command an army of chihuahuas.

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