There's nothing more imperialistic than trashing other cultures, even if you're not so ballsy as to name the runners-up, bronzes and Certificate of Participation recipients in the league of nations. That's why past, current and probably future presidential candidate, former Massachusetts governor and Olympics hostess Mitt Romney is our Imperialist of the Week.

Everyone's favorite flip-flopping Mormon has a new book, No Apology: The Case for American Greatness, which says President Obama is a foreign-policy pyro, providing "kindling" for anti-American fires burning around the world. Obama should talk more about "America's values" and shun "the self-loathing of Western intellectuals," which is to blame for the explosion of baby mamas and implosion of John Adams' name-recognition (pre-Paul Giamatti), Romney says.

Mitt may be the greatest denigrator of The Non-American Way since P.J. O'Rourke's brilliantly offensive "Foreigners of the World" study for National Lampoon. And there's nothing more American than putting other people in their place. But why stop at A(Me)rica Against the World?

Some religions are better than others too. Southern Baptists are better than (in descending order) Pentecostals, Assemblies of God, Presbyterian Church in America, Free Methodists, Anglicans, Practicing Catholics, Mormons, Orthodox Jews, Lutherans-Missouri Synod, Sufi Muslims, African Methodist Episcopalians, American Baptists, Buddhists, Confucians, Hindus, Presbyterian Church USA, Conservative Jews, Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, Unitarians, Reform Jews, Animists, United Methodists, United Church of Christ, Shiites, Sunnis, Wahhabis, and Episcopalians. If you belong to a mainline, George Costanza's "Opposite" religion is better than yours, because at least he believes what he's peddling.

Mitt may not agree with my rankings, but he can't argue with the premise. Some cultural mores are better than others - people who walk single file when passing, call women by their first names, use puns for mating purposes, spurn micro-enterprise, pronounce curses on snow, judge libertarians as attention-whore hedonists, elevate taco-shell bowls above Jimmy Carter, and tell kids to stop plagiarizing their parents' taste in music.

That's my right as an American, dammit - to tell you what's what and possibly to draw pictures illustrating the demerits of your views. Show Mitt your appreciation by purchasing his latter-day golden plates of truth.

Image courtesy of Lookbook.nu

The world is a smorgasbord of hotties. This is not a surprise, especially if you're from Sweden or Southern California, where a disproportionate number of babes, models, hot chicks, and sexy coeds originate. For single men, the landscape is an almost mind-numbing swath of feminine beauty, and like browsing the farmer's market, the bachelors can look and date at will. There's a reason the word allure contains a word also used in fishing. Those with godlike powers of persuasion could easily maintain a casual dating regimen to cover much of the population of perfectly proportioned pulchritudinous princesses.

But what about men who are firmly entrenched in a relationship? Is it morally acceptable for attached males to scope out the cuties?

As one of those attached males, I have firsthand experience with this issue; living in Southern California, I have the blessing and curse of being confronted with the bountiful crop of beautiful women and the instinctual male urge to simply look. Forget lust, this is like driving by a horrible traffic collision. Like car accidents, women prompt autonomic ocular responses. And like rubbernecking, there's a sense that if not reprehensible, the gazing from afar is not exactly high value activity, especially if you're in a committed relationship to a woman you may have previously rubbernecked before you became attached to her.

Can guys make mental maps of the feminine representatives without falling into the soul-damning territory of adultery and fornication?

Here I will step out of my role as beleaguered man and step into the role of impartial observer, and point to Ace of Cakes and beta fish as an answer to the dilemma at hand.

Ace of Cakes is a television show that features a master baker and his team of elite pastry specialists creating a cake for a client; perhaps the cake is for a wedding, or a bar mitzvah, or in honor of a bicentennial. The cake created for each event is a work of art in its own right, and often is elaborately built with materials rivaling those used in large construction projects.

One gets the sense that these cakes are the most beautiful baked goods ever created, but after all the sawing and cutting and painting, the thought of tasting these cakes is almost abhorrent. Not only would it be a crime to destroy these works of art by cutting into and consuming them, but that even to do so would result in dissatisfaction; the cake is not meant to be eaten, only admired and appreciated.

Back to beleaguered hero: to men with a woman (beautiful or not) on their arm, other beautiful women are like the cakes baked by the Ace.

Put another way, the ladies pass in and out of the male consciousness like betas in a twenty gallon tank. We see them on the street, they occupy the moment and possibly co-opt our glandular functionality, but six seconds later, the memory and the moment are gone. To restrict or morally judge as unacceptable the very nature of male existence is not only anti-Darwinian, it is scientifically impossible.

However, we are not only creatures of instinct, but we are creatures of reason. Men must know the line they walk is always precarious, and must guard against the incursions of infidelity and the tyranny of titillation. When it comes to the babes that pass in the night, there might be no better mantra than that of the goldfish: To look is human; to forget is ichthyine.

On February 13, 2010, Kevin Smith boarded a Southwest Air flight headed to Burbank. He was asked by the captain to leave the plane for being a safety risk, prompting a flurry of angry tweets by Smith, including some from the flight he was bumped to. "I'm way fat, but I'm not there just yet," and "If you look like me, you may be ejected from Southwest Air," he tweeted.

Oh yeah, we forgot to mention that Smith is approaching 300 pounds of pure indie cinema mass.

Southwest Air should be congratulated for their imperialistic approach to the problem. After all, very few people know that planes must have a balanced cargo or they risk danger in the skies above, where a very little turbulence can turn sheets of corpulence into flying death. When you put a school of dolphins on one side of the boat and a school of dolphins and a whale on the other, the whale side will tend to tip.

Without a doubt, Smith's situation mirrors many in our fair country; fliers who bear unseemly weight also bear the burden of embarrassment as they are tossed off flights and roller coasters, and are unable to share cabs with their fat friends, increasing their per capita travel costs by what we are sure is the mathematical equation of g(irth) x v(ehicle) = s(hame)±h(umiliation).

However, we cannot deny Southwest's approach was egalitarian, altruistic, and imperialistic. After all, they are required by law not to discriminate, but are also under moral and ethical rules which forbid them to put other passengers or crew in danger. By kicking the pleasantly obese Smith off the flight and bumping him to a less crowded one, Southwest made the right move and has thus earned this week's Imperialist title.

Clearly some writers hit upon these themes more explicitly than others. Stephen King's Under the Dome, which I haven't read yet, was recently described in Esquire as a novel perfectly positioned as the personal and somehow unique vision of an author who is the ultimate harbiter of "post-9/11 fearfulness." I love King to morbid death, but is he really the guy we need to go to for another booze-swilling look inward? King doesn't lack for vocabulary, but he's not exactly Faulkner, and his philosophic musings are the least interesting facet of his books.

Philip Roth's The Plot Against America was described as casting post-September 11 era in a chilling new light, notably through a Jewish lens, and though I suppose a novel with a titular plot against America might include some post 9/11 inferences, I question the need for all our literature to be stained in some way, explicit or no, with the ash of that day.

It's not that I'm a denier, a relativist, or obstructionist. I understand 9/11 has deep national consequences and I also understand that when the twins fell down, our deep Western liberal guilt rose up like Poseidon from the sea. I'm not saying our novelists who have tapped into and utilized September 11 and after as subtext, thematic forces, or verbose recreations of the day in full are full of crap. But really, can't we finally leave behind the punditry and pedantic soulful corrections via the verbose pens of Saul Bellow, Gore Vidal, Don DeLillo, and Jonathan Safran Foer?

American authors in particular seem incapable of moving past what essayist Richard Gray called "the preliminary stages of trauma" resulting from the 9/11 attacks. I agree wholeheartedly. The patient was admitted and has since been released, but like Page Six our post-9/11 novels seem to proliferate in tabloidian fashion, as if we as a nation are incapable of registering anything other than shock at the realization that something bad happened to us, and by setting it into bone china of the author's mother's growing up in New Jersey, has somehow made a salient point about how our culture now can't afford to look backward except to see the flames and falling bodies, and the deep psychic impact those flames and bodies had upon the American landscape.

I guess I'm just tired of viewing the world in its every facet with the unstated but ever-present reminder of terror's toll, of jingoistic effusions in misguided attempts to thwart the flow of extremism, and how to get from teenage sexual anxiety, to planes hitting buildings, to waterboarding terror suspects in just 600 pages.

We may be Americans, but we're not dumb. It's time to move on, time to say something new worth saying. If you reference 9/11, it had better be to make an Islamic fart joke or to talk about how it reflects God's love of the color fuschia or describe the fractal nature of terror and how it fits into the mathematics of fear--a treatise on the numbers of nihilism.

The most important lesson we learned as wide-eyed tykes inclined toward a grown-up's authority - how to line up in the event of a school fire - faded as we got permission to leave the house and go out with friends.  And what do you do in public with friends?  Walk two or more to one side.

This is no problem - indeed, it prevents accusations of "stop looking at my butt, perv" - until another person or group approaches from the opposite direction on a narrow path.  Sidewalks in particular are prone to this entirely avoidable gridlock, for which there's a simple solution:  Single-file passing.

Why the hell is this such a rarity?

Because we're too damn special to merge into a single walking lane, apparently.  Or to even acknowledge we might be in an oncoming person's path, absentmindedly chattering away about Justin, Rihanna, or (in our nation's capital) the Illinois GOP Senate primary.  Notice how those approaching ignore eye contact as they draw near, as if they're pretending not to notice a clipboard-waving activist (a laudable action) or, in geopolitical terms, dumping subsidized textiles on the global market with no regard for Third World development.  Yes, making me step into the grass, mud or street so your friendly front line can stay intact is morally equivalent to economic jingoism.

Yet we good-natured approachers inevitably move out of the way to avoid a game of sidewalk chicken with a nerd-pounding jock, clawed Valley Girl or mother wielding a stroller, whose emotional and chemical stability are not to be assumed.  No reason to risk a confrontation for something as insignificant as manners in passing, right?

But you don't beat a bully by turning tail and telling the teacher and your mom, who will advocate communication.  Balls to that.  Watch Revenge of the Nerds, get a sensei, and practice your response for the predictable "what the hell?" exclamation when you careen into a double-wide entourage.

"I'm sorry, but I have the right of way" might puzzle your upper-middle-class shopistas long enough for them to decide it's not worth parsing your statement and simply walk by single-file.  "Get the f--- out of the way" risks fisticuffs with frat boys - this is a good situation for having a predetermined witness who can testify to your antagonist's unprovoked bellicosity in the event of blows.  Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, you could simply chat exaggeratedly on your phone while shooting rapid-fire glances into shop windows and plow into traffic.  "Omigod, like, sorry, I was so stoked about these chamomile bath soaps!" invites an understanding look from a pretty pileup of bubbly blondes or gregarious gays.  It's probably best to avoid issuing a citizen's citation using an official-looking badge, as local police and mall cops don't appreciate others homing in on their petty reprimands.

Like a suicide bomber or a Mormon on a yellow bicycle, all it takes is one encounter for people in their crosswalk hairs to perk up and be on the lookout for self-appointed enforcers of manners in the future.  Won't you join me in this decentralized, never-ending flash mob of civility?

It's none of my business--at least, it wasn't my business until you broke the rules--what was in your grocery basket. Hell, if it were up to me, you wouldn't be allowed to bring anything through the express lane that has wheels, including strollers by the way. But you forced me to evaluate your twisted purchases when you brazenly walked up to the register under the very clearly marked sign, started shoving your ill-gotten items up to the checkout girl, who looks at you like you're full of shit but she doesn't earn enough per hour to say anything, and then, hell of all hells, you break out your checkbook.

I don't care what kind of day you had. I don't care that you're carrying the same item multiple times. That doesn't count as one purchase. It's not one item. It's still more than one item, you dweeb. I don't care that you're running late and don't want to wait in the regular lane with all the other proles. You are breaking the rules and someone's got to stop it.

Breaking the express lane code is like punching Michael Dukakis in the face. Sure, no one really minds, but is it right? Is it morally acceptable? Fudging the numbers in the grocery store is just as reprehensible as Martha Stewart accepting insider trading, or Barack Obama promising not to tax the middle class and then doing it, or wiping out puffer fish to extract the ten ounces of delicious flesh their bodies offer in exchange for the thrilling possibility of ingesting their highly deadly venom in a $200 plate of fugu.

By violating the sacred covenant of Ten Items or Less, one also might as well throw out the code of Hammurabi, the Ten Commandments, the Constitution, and Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. I mean, that's what you're doing anyway, eliminating the rule of law and replacing it with the selfish rule of assholery. No circumstances dictate the bending of the rule. No exceptions should be meted out. The quid of the express lane should not be overwhelmed by the quo of the people in it. That is, after all, the whole point of the express lane--to avoid the congestion that plagues other, less efficient lanes. Violators, like speeders and coke dealers, should pay the full penalty.

Since there is no penalty, one should be enacted immediately. I suggest the Express Lane checkout machines all be able to hike the grocery tax of the purchases of all who exceed the allotted limit. This ensures that only the wealthy, who don't care about menial taxes, will continue coasting through in oblivious douchebaggery. And since the wealthy only shop at Savenor's, Formaggio's, and Philbrick's, the remaining stores will have a restored sense of order.

In the meantime, until this law is passed, can't you just read the sign and do what it frakking says?

Cup-shaking for change from passers-by is the first skill a novice bum learns from elder bums. And why not? Lacking the fortitude to stand up all day like a waitress or wait in a parking lot for manual-labor opportunities, bums learn to park their bums on the sidewalk, stare ahead blankly, and shake their moneymaker whenever two-legged mammals come within range. This exercise seems doomed to fail for all but the most pitiful and progressive (an overlapping category if there was one): It spares the emotional tenor of a verbal request in lieu of a begger's bicycle bell, warning pedestrians there's trouble and passive aggression ahead.

Though I've been personally solicited by alms-seekers a handful of times in recent months, with sometimes poignant and always respectful stories about their hardships and appreciation of a few dollars (I'm a sucker for 'em), the Cup Shake seems likely to prevail indefinitely. Before an enterprising personal-injury lawyer jumps on this and starts flooding interactive billboards with promises of municipal payouts for hand-wringers, and a reporter in search of an easy Pulitzer does a six-part series titled "A Fair Shake," cities had better pull together their lawyers and message men (er, persons). Here are a few ideas to get the ball rolling.

Renewable bumergy. An enterprising bureaucrat would attach small generators to these bums' hands, to create energy that can be sold back to the local power company, with revenue put into a Bum Fund to pay for their medical expenses - not just carpal tunnel, but also sore ass and Your Mother Told You Your Face Would Freeze in That Shape Syndrome. (The latter shouldn't be confused with the inevitable acronym for non-heterosexuality, YMT-YYF-WFTS.)

Heavier coins. This will require some help from Uncle Sam. If the U.S. Mint starts pounding out chunky currency - from quarter-pound quarters to half-pound pennies - not only will pedestrians want to get rid of their change more quickly, but bums will be forced into a Hobson's choice: keep less change in the cup to go easy on the wrists, and reduce the sonic effectiveness of the shaking, or actually ask people in English for change. The latter was successfully used by our president.

Punitive tax on change-givers. Create a field on tax forms that asks how much change you gave to bums last year. Those who are proud of their giving of course will dish, to look good for their preachy girlfriend, Governmentia. But this field actually calculates their Bum Maintenance Tax - because this stunt can only be pulled once before The Blogs are all over it, the tax will have to be a highly punitive figure, such as 1,000 percent. Next on my agenda - the Bird Maintenance Tax for bread-tossers.

Cities can also avoid this fate by licensing my Bum Stamps patent. Interested parties can contact me at greg@culturalimperialist.com.

The tragic result: a country of mournfully ignorant culture hounds, faux-intellectuals who consider themselves aware because they listen to Arcade Fire, follow the Silversun Pickups, and march to the tune of any Radiohead song.

What passes for depth in the music of these musical druids is the equivalent of glacial melting, with watered-down allusions, overused 4/4 beats, and tunes that only add to the ocean of mediocrity surrounding our mundane techno/cultural landscape. Indeed, the indie musical revolution resembles the explosion of easy-access pornography, coinciding with burgeoning broadband usage in the late 90's, giving bands a more visible platform from which to perform, providing them with more ways to "get their music out."

Just as the porn industry invented and utilized new technology platforms to showcase human perversion and degradation, indie music effectively wrangled technology as grassroots broadcasting. What was once safely ensconced in some poor father's garage and the occasional open mic salon was now given more wide coverage. MySpace and Facebook offered musicians a public space and the means to distribute crap dressed up in espresso coffee sleeves and ironic facial hair with minimal expense.

What makes all this indie music bad? At its core, the bands producing this insipid stuff suffer from authenticity crises. Dandies pimp out their world-conscious lyrics, supported by an eclectic mix of unusual instruments, the use of which is meant to convey authenticity and originality. But guitar-based pop about girls and how they ruin or improve life isn't exactly new.

These bands and their empty music are, like porn, the stinking effluence of a culture that has lost substance or meaning. To paraphrase Bart Simpson, we need another ZOO8 to thin out their ranks.

What baffles me is why Jews of all stripes wear yarmulkes.

The children of Israel in this country aren't particularly devout, if my personal interactions and pop culture (Sarah Silverman, Seth Rogen) are any indication. You can tell the ones who are - the men wear those hats that look like felt-covered Wolfgang Puck plates, grow beards that only squeaky teenage boys envy, and rock back and forth like they're trying too hard to honor an Asian businessman. It's certainly a way to set themselves apart, as no woman in her right mind would be attracted to a man in this getup in and of itself.

That's the point of religious garb and grooming, right? It doesn't have to be ostentacious - wearing a small cross, shaving your balls, or for evangelical pastors, donning a golf tie for your sermon. Even for gaudy garb, there's a connection between the apparel and the attitude - Muslim women cover their heads to protect their purity, and black megachurch pastors wear gold crosses that can be seen from space to protect them from the FBI and IRS.

It's really hard to miss a yarmulke, which at first glance looks like a baseball cap that shrunk in the wash. Yet you can't slap on one to hide your bad hair day, a key selling point for turbans and mitres, and those I see most often, held in place by barrettes that scream tween girl, are boringly black. They are meant to be seen and yet to say nothing - yarmulkes no more suggest your values than wearing a beret, the crown of useless hats, suggests you advise Afghan military commanders.

There are a couple explanations for this phenomenon of quasi-religious people wearing the proper attire, as opposed to pot-smoking Yalies wearing Rasta hats. Either the yarmulke is a magic force field, akin to wearing tin foil, that keeps God's wrath away from the casual Jew, or the yarmulke shows a respect for Judaism and its culture (and a modicum of morality for the tax-evading mistress-keeper) without committing oneself to, you know, believing in Yahweh. It tells the world, especially that part of Northwest Washington, D.C. that I inhabit, "I come from hearty stock whose moral code pioneered the concepts of minority rights and debt forgiveness. Hey, quit hogging the blow."

For all you disobedient children of Abraham, wear your skullcaps proudly. Like a paper bag around a fifth of cheap whiskey, it gives the rest of us hope that there's really something else under there.