Three big earthquakes happened. The ground shook and came apart in places. Birds fell off their branches and, before exploding into dust, chirped the sharps and flats of a generation badly out of touch. Other bids flew around crapping on stuff. Scientists in clean white coats stirred cups of coffee with their monocles, while heavy steel machines printed zigzag lines on drums of paper.

"This is strange," Doctor Franky observed.
"What is?" asked Doctor Choo-choo-train
"The Shake-o-meter just stopped. It isn't registering any motion. None."
"Tell the Headmaster."

Waves of men with strange flying contraptions fixed to their backs were dispatched from military hangars and hurried up into the sky and disappeared like sparks from a black powder gun. Then came the sweating, nausea and vomiting. The insomnia. The paleness. Grizzly bears trembled uncontrollably. Manatees grew irritable and 80% of all bumble bees noted extended periods of abnormal heart palpitations.

Earth is different now. Some people like it. But you can't be a patriot. The continental borders are all blended together, so you can't say, "Yeah baby, hey... This is America and we don't give a muthafuck. Wanna try to CHANGE us? Get outta my country." That kind of stuff is useless now. Just like before.

America is the stomach part of a new Pangea, surrounded by trembling grizzly bears and bees with bad hearts.

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