In his ongoing moronic attempt to have his dog reflect holidays, world events and sports highlights, my dad has me parading around today in a green jacket.  This is due to the stunning victory in the Masters yesterday by Australian Adam Scott, the first Aussie ever to win the prestigious tournament.

On Christmas I’m dressed as Aussie Claus, on Easter I’m the Aussie Bunny, on Passover I’m Moses From Down Under.  When Margaret Thatcher died, I wore a black arm band on each of my 4 legs.  The absurdity has become debilitating.  So, when Dad ceremoniously placed the green jacket on my back, he wondered why I wasn’t filled with pride, me being an Aussie and all.  I patiently explained to him, for the sixth time, that my breed of dogs actually originated in the American west, probably in Colorado.  Some rancher thought one of his new-fangled herding dogs barked with an Australian accent, and the rest is history.  So, while I’m happy for Adam Scott, I bear no false national pride in his victory.  And yet, I’m walking the neighborhood adorned in this ridiculous coat.

But then I thought about the increasing blurring of national affiliations.  In the recent World Baseball Classic, a player could make  a team roster if he once belched in the team’s home country or could come relatively close to pointing out the place on a globe.  And adding to the confusion are all those relatively new blends, like  African Americans, Swiss chard, Irish tenors, German chocolates and Spanish moss.  Yeah.  So what if I’m not from Australia?  Adam Scott was born there, but he went to school in Las Vegas and lives in Switzerland.  I occasionally gamble and eat Swiss cheese.

So, on the broadest national scale, we are brothers.  The green jacket feels better now.  And, hey mate, put another shrimp on the barbie.  I’M AN AUSSIE!!