Texas Attempted: Washington choking

Another 6 o'clock start the next day. I am woken by my brother, who has made coffee. He hands me the orange liquid, like water spat in by a Columbian. I savour the flavour of good intent and try not to cringe.

We follow my mother to the elevator. She is like a mime artist on marijuana, desperate not to wake the other hotel guests. She communicates in gestures and hisses, and like Medusa she routs us from the hotel and towards the bus stop.

The tour starts at 8. No Bob today - we have his smoother-toned brother, who was raped by Barry White. His dulcet tones seduce us as we travel to Mount Vernon, the place where George Washington went to do memorable stuff. We see the place where Washington banked, the place where Washington went to his doctor, the tavern where Washington drank, the place where Washington met his generals, the street where Washington walked, the church where Washington worshipped, the wall where Washington went to whip the wascaly wicked witch of the west while wolfing down waffles at Walmart.

The town is like a model village owned by a homosexual kid. White walls and brightly coloured shutters, town houses painted pink and blue, cobbled streets. Lovely.

After driving through we head along the Potomac River (Barry says "Potombah" - it probably sounds sexier). We are watched by mother-fucker-class bald eagles, who could easily snatch a small child... or my mother. We form a phalanx around her and hope the eagles have coca-cola bottles sewn to their wings.

Barry goes off to buy tickets as we stop at the the main-man's birthplace. I find that likening people to celebrities is a great way to deflate racism. We need more Muslims to make films. Good films - not that Bollywood shit. Get some bad mother-fucker in a turban fighting Predators and wielding a lightsaber. Boom - world peace!

I high-five Jefferson and then get off the bus.

At the home of George Washington, father of the free, kids get shouted at, doors get locked, officers search us for food and drink and chewing gum. No smoking, no parking, no loading, no misanthropic Nietzschean optimism, no fireworks, no liquids over 100ml, no standing for shit, no Big Jake, no defining moment, no Corcoran discount.

No. Fucking. Sprite.

We enter the Orientation Building, where we are divided according to our sexual preferences. (Nah, just kidding - but it's something to think about). And being ignorant Brits who haven't cared too much about what these fuzzy colonials have gotten up to, we decide to watch the introduction film in the centre's auditorium. It is a Hollywood-style dramatisation of George Washington's rise to power, which I will now summarise through the medium of Star Trek.

Washington: We shall cross the "Potombah" River and take the Klingons by surprise.

Scottish Dude: We canneh do it cap'n! The men ah diseased and we've run ou' o' haggis!

Washington: We shall dine on victory tonight, my friend.

Doctor Dude: God damn it, George! I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker! We've lost every battle we've fought so far! It's madness, George!

Washington: There will be no defeat. This is our country. Look at my profound face - look at it, I say!

Well-spoken Dude: Your plan is illogical, Captain. The Klingons are a superior soldier. Their weapons and training greatly surpass our own.

Washington: But you were there, Mr Spock! You were there when we served alongside the Klingons in the Romulan Wars. You saw how disorganised they were - how we had to lead them after their own officers were killed. The Klingons are not invincible.

Martha: I love you, George! Take me - take me now!

Washington: Not now, Martha, I'm busy. Prepare the Away Team. Energize!

[Der der der der der dun dun dun! Der der der der der dun dun dun! Brrrlllling! Brrrrlllling! Der der der der der dun dun dun!]


But joking aside, George Washington rocked my world. He built a country and then handed power back to the people, resigning his commission and going home once everything was in place. A soldier and statesman. If he were alive today, I'd buy that man a Sprite.

We get to his mother-fucker-class mansion, and we see the room where he died. 36 hours, choking to death from an agonising throat inflammation. A terrible end for a great man. In 200 years will some egotistical little prick be making fun of my painful demise and spoofing my life with pop culture references? I hope so, should that egotistical little prick be touched as I was and moved to place me amongst the greatest of men, as I place George Washington. So what if his mansion was run by slaves? What hero does not have sufferers in the chambers of his works?

We exit through the gallery that charts his life, from a humble soldier wrought with innocence and failure, to the titan who refrained from kingship. One hell of a life, and it all began when he was 26. There's hope for me yet.

We run the eagle-gauntlet again, and mother lives to worry another day. Barry takes us back into Washington, past the Marine Corps Monument, and then deposits us in Arlington Cemetery.