Carrie underwood america the beautiful

the muzak backing track for america the beautiful crapping out was funny/awkward but idk everyone joining in to sing along with her a cappella was a nice moment

Kyle sat in the United Polaris lounge of Newark Terminal C, reading his book. The book had some sort of fifty-years-into-the-future biopunk setting, with nonbinary robots and genome hackers. The protagonist had undergone a gender change three times—assigned agender at birth, then upgraded to male, then altered to demiboy, and now returned to agender. Unfortunately, each change had caused a personality matrix deterioration, and so they were working with a young enby frogkin (grown from a human fetus that had been spliced with amphibian DNA, to produce a future worker who would be capable of operating underwater, an ability sought-after by the exoplanetary prospecting group CometCo) named Croak in order to steal proprietary repair software and a cure for Croak’s dry skin condition from the corporation which had dominated the eastern seaboard for decades: the Vance Group.
Despite his attempts to concentrate on the text, Kyle found himself drifting, and before long his eyes had closed. A gentle snoring issued from his lips. Kyle dreamed of the setting in the book, finding himself as Croak, making plans with the robotic accomplice to break into one of the goods trains which the Vance Group operated up and down the east coast.
“This is really shitty worldbuilding,” said Kyle to himself, and dismissed the dream. He rose from his comfortable seat in the lounge then headed to the men’s restroom. Naturally, he made a beeline for the nearest open stall. The interior was immaculate. Gone were the days of waiting in line for the restrooms open to all passengers; his career success and his detransition had combined to provide him with bathroom luxury in this moment. He sighed, content, and leaned back. He could write an entire short story about the experience, but he wouldn’t, because that would be weird.
After finishing his business, he noticed that boarding was about to begin for his flight to Heathrow. He exited the Polaris lounge, turned back briefly to give it a longing glance, then made his way to the gate with his carry-on luggage in tow, wheels gliding smoothly over the laminated floor.
Kyle slept for most of the flight after finishing the in-flight meal, which he noted was of significantly better quality than that provided to passengers in economy class. He took advantage of the lie-flat seat to sleep on his side, which he found the most comfortable position. He awoke, groggy, about half an hour before the plane was due to land. He fiddled with his phone a bit, playing some game or other, before reconfiguring his seat in preparation for descent. After passing through border control and customs, he made his way to the Tube station. Work had offered to pay for a taxi from the hotel to the airport, but he knew that traffic in Central London was an abomination, even on Sundays. The Tube would be faster, and also give him an opportunity to engage his neglected core muscles as it juddered back and forth.
The Piccadilly Line car was initially filled with fellow travelers from Heathrow, but they gradually thinned out as the train passed through a series of dismal stations in west London: Hatton Cross, Osterley, Acton Town, Hammersmith, and so on, the sun gradually rising into the sky as the morning progressed, until reaching the more interesting locales of Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner, and finally, his stop: Green Park. He rolled his suitcase out of the train and onto the long escalator which would take him almost to street level. After emerging from the station, he made his way to the hotel that his employer had booked for him: the May Fair, on Stratton Street. Naturally, the hotel had been booked from the previous day, enabling him to check in early that morning. He made his way to his room and slept for an hour, replenishing just enough energy to make it through the rest of the day.
Kyle checked his watch. He had about an hour until his lunch reservation at Hawksmoor on Air Street, chosen to impress but not overawe his dining companion. He showered, then dressed in a straightforward outfit: a collared shirt under a suede jacket, chinos, and espadrilles. He carefully combed his hair into a side part, with mousse to keep it in place. Lastly, he replaced his eyeglasses, and inspected his reflection. It was perfect. His image was peak masculinity, he told himself, while putting to one side the knowledge that few others would see him that way.
He made his way along Piccadilly, hopping to the central divider to avoid the crowds of pedestrians. A Met officer regarded him sternly but said nor did anything. He passed Fortnum’s, St. James’s, and the gigantic Waterstone’s, before meeting his former classmate Paul at the intersection with Regent Street.
“Paul! Long time no see!” Kyle remembered to smile.
“Well well, Kyle here again in the flesh. How long are you staying?”
They made their way to the restaurant while catching up, and Kyle’s judicious reservation allowed them to bypass the line and be seated within minutes. Paul ordered a filet, while Kyle ordered the Sunday roast, not having had one in years, having planned it as a conversation starter: he knew how to hold a conversation about food, having eaten at various restaurants in London and Manhattan not for the experience but to be able to say he’d eaten at them.
“You know, the one thing I’ve missed is proper English food like this. They try to do it in the States, but they never get it right. Remember we used to go to the County Arms, on Castle Street, on Fridays? It had those amazing pies, with thick pastry and big chunks of meat inside. You’d never get something like that over there.”
“It’s changed owners now,” rued Paul. “I went back there a few years ago to get my MA. The food has really gone downhill.”
“That’s a shame,” Kyle muttered, despite not really caring beyond it being a socially acceptable means of continuing the conversation. He winced thinking about the likely saturated fat content of those pies, which he had eaten on so many occasions as a student.
“I caught up with my old DoS, too,” added Paul, causing Kyle to panic internally, not having anticipated this turn. “He was telling me that standards have really slipped, because now they have to make a certain percentage of their offers to people from state schools. What used to be covered in just IA now takes almost two years.”
Kyle sighed into his drink, frustrated not with the news but with this part of the conversation for which he had not prepared, and to mask the delay as he mentally scrambled for something to say. “What about the smart kids at public schools?”
“Most of them don’t get offers.”
They spent the next minute or so eating in silence.
“This is really good,” Paul said. Kyle grunted in agreement.
The meal finished, Kyle paid the check and the two former classmates said their good-byes at the entrance.
“So you really transitioned back, huh? I wasn’t sure what to think when I saw your email. What made you decide to do it?”
Kyle had anticipated this, and had come up with a facetious answer in advance which he delivered with a straight face. “It just wasn’t profitable any more, especially now that I’ve established myself in the industry. Trans people used to be rare, but now they’re two a penny. Companies are also cutting back on DEI stuff a lot. Being trans is a liability these days. It’s not an asset any more.”
“Hm, I see what you mean. Transgender stuff has exploded over here, too. It’s a big controversy. Anyway: wish I could stay longer, but I’ve got to get back. We’re driving up to see my parents this evening.”
“Don’t worry about it. Next time!” Kyle saw him off with a wave, before dropping his smile and heading in the opposite direction. He felt nothing about the past hour and a half beyond a gnawing guilt over the carbs in the food he had just consumed.
He wove his way through the side streets to the Royal Arcade, wherein he bought a box of chocolates from Charbonnel et Walker—not knowing what the recipients liked, he elected to go with a luxury brand—to share with the rest of the London office. He dropped them off at the hotel before making his way to the British Museum via Russell Square station, where he spent most of the remaining afternoon, wandering the halls not for the exhibits but for the small amount of exercise it afforded him. His mind wandered in another direction: he thought about how, really, he’d rather just lie on the floor and do nothing ever, but for his body’s insistence on decaying without regular maintenance. A twitch in his leg reminded him of his recent lack of vigorous activity: a situation which he would have to remedy within the next day or two.
Kyle ate dinner at a tapas restaurant on Charlotte Street. He’d wanted to eat at Navarro’s, but found it was no longer in business. He carefully picked high-protein options, declined dessert, then took the Victoria Line back to the hotel. He was too tired to contemplate utilizing the hotel gym, and there wasn’t enough floor space for him to do push-ups, so he instead spent the evening hating himself while gorging on Haribo Starmix—at last able to taste those foamy eggs and hearts again, which were painfully absent from the US version—and watching 90s pro wrestling before throwing up—having made himself sick eating so much candy—then turning in for the night and dreaming of The Rock and Shawn Michaels performing the same sequence of moves, night after night, for house show audiences across America, of The Rock making fun of hapless interviewers over and over, of Shawn Michaels never quite pulling his tights down before being forced to end his striptease by Diesel, Vince McMahon, Gorilla Monsoon, or some other authority figure.
The next morning after showering he dressed himself in his work outfit with which he attempted to conceal his body shape: a pale blue dress shirt, slacks, suspenders, a college tie, and loafers. He deliberately took a detour en route to the office, as an attempt to engage in physical activity and postpone potential disaster. The sports bra beneath his shirt flattened his chest; a discomfort to which he’d become accustomed. He made his way to the office on Berkeley Square. The London team manager greeted him and shook his hand. “Good to see you again, Kyle! It’s been, what, five years?”
“Give or take,” replied Kyle, pushing his mouth into a smile. “Hey, listen. I picked up a little something for the team yesterday.” He handed Owen the box of chocolates and completed the social ritual he’d studied.
“Wow, thanks! That’s really kind of you. Perhaps we can open them after lunch. We were thinking of heading over to Piggy’s at around one.”
“Oh, Piggy’s is still around? I’ll come with. I used to love that place.” Kyle grinned until Owen turned his back, then returned to a neutral expression. Piggy’s still being around meant he didn’t have to take a risk with an unknown source of food which might be filled with grease or simple carbs.
The day proceeded smoothly. Kyle reacquainted himself with the small London office, and caught up with several people whom he hadn’t seen in person for half a decade. The salad from Piggy’s was as good as he remembered, and the whole team agreed that the chocolates were exquisite. Kyle ate one to be polite. He left the building at the end of the day seemingly with a spring in his step, but in reality itching to burn off some of the calories he had gained during the last two days. He hadn’t exercised since Friday, and the lack of physical activity was getting to him. His arms and legs were restless, and he walked briskly to the hotel, this time taking the most direct route possible.
After entering the hotel, he asked the concierge how to access the gym. Once informed, he hurriedly changed into his workout gear in his room, his legs now visibly shaking and his teeth shaking. He descended to the basement whereupon disaster struck: the indoor rower was out of order.
“No, no, no, no, no…” Kyle murmured to himself, and began to look down at his body. His thighs began to ripple as his soft tissue shrank from days of disuse. His hard-won muscle mass faded into nothing as his skin fell loosely on gracile bones. He fell to his hands and knees, his legs no longer able to support his weight. He slowly lowered to the ground as his arms weakened and their strength gave in. Liquefied tissue seeped out of his mouth, the flow of which he was powerless to stop. In the mirror he caught his gaunt reflection, the once-tight athletic wear now hanging loosely atop his skeletal frame. His vision faded into grey dots as the blood flow to his brain stopped. His last thought before consciousness ceased was that he should have gone for a run instead.