Yesterday I was waiting my turn at the haircutters and I had this revelation. I understood why the rest of the world hates Americans, and why I hate them too. I was sitting in one corner of the pre-haircut area, listening to Lite FM on the radio and watching some little pissy kid run around on a sugar high, and there was, on the mass-produced Ikea-reject love seat in the other corner of the room, the quintessential ugly American. An obese, oily, blotchy lump of flesh one-third-covered in the Wal-Mart clothing line.

It's not that the ugly American is a cheap-ass dirty porker, it's that we're content to be our tubby, stupid selves. Try even imagining Europeans, for example, with Americans' particular flaws: There's no such thing as an obese Brit; they're "portly." Or a greasy Italian; instead, they're "pomaded." And that's not musk you smell on a Frenchman; it's "cologne." Unlike the rest of the world, America seems to breed this "eh, whatever" attitude where "room for improvement" are dirty words. We fall into two camps — those of us who are stick-figurish and complain that our thighs are too fat and those of us whose thighs really, really are too fat but who don't seem to picking up on all the insecurities Vogue and Cosmo and Shape and, uh, O: The Oprah Magazine are shoving onto those of us who don't need them.

So here's my plea to America: You don't have to be perfect, but you do have to get off your corpulent asses and put some goddamn effort into improving yourselves. Now, I've gotta go and find some Stridex pads.