On Xenophobia

In Europe it is unfettered and incontinent, blithe and fully realized, as honest as it is heinous. “I don’t like you,” the European says. “You’re __________, or perhaps __________. Either way, I don’t like you.” On the other continent, the American’s xenophobia is spiritlessly impacted, and oft escapes, unaware of itself—the whistle of a staunched fart, long suppressed, one pretends, and sometimes believes, didn’t originate in one’s own bowels.

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