Exceptional. Except...

I realized I was in desperate need of a hobby recently when I actually sat down to watch a few minutes of commentary on Fox News. It’s not that I actively wanted to, mind you, but sometimes you just have to subject yourself to a torturous pursuit, even if you know it’s bad for you. It’s like finding out that a manure truck has hit a telephone pole a block away from your home: You know the air will be toxic, but you put on a coat and walk down to see the devastation anyway, because what else are you supposed to do?

This was during the Olympics, that special time when people pretend to like water polo, and a plucky Fox pundit somehow managed to use the games as a springboard to a discussion on “American exceptionalism.” You’ve heard the term, I’m sure. Subjectively phrased, this is the notion that America is tops in the world because it’s, well, America. It needs no other reason. The country, and its people, are ordained by supernatural forces to be totally awesome, despite our proclivity for eating sandwiches with slabs of fried chicken in place of bread.

The pundit complained about the American crowd’s tepid reaction to a remarkable medal run by the U.S. women’s gymnastics team. The Americans in attendance, argued Mr. Pundit, should have let loose with a flurry of wild cheers, instead of “being afraid of expressing their American exceptionalism.”

I searched Mr. Pundit’s face for signs of irony or humor. Alas, there were none. I missed the rest of his commentary because it suddenly seemed very, very important that I find a brick wall against which to smack my already aching head.

Now don’t get me wrong: You don’t live a span of decades in a free country without developing an affinity for it. I’m certainly thankful I was born in the United States as opposed to, say, Afghanistan, where women are uniformly subjugated and made to disguise their faces like ninjas in a Chuck Norris movie. Or Russia, where writing a column like this could get me assassinated. Or China, where zygotes are encouraged to sew soccer balls.

But there’s something intrinsically arrogant about the idea of American exceptionalism. It implies that the soil we walk on, the air we breath, the particles that comprise our bodies, are imbued with special America Juice that makes us smarter, wiser, more athletic, more moral, and better able to guess the value of a toaster on The Price Is Right. It implies that we need do nothing more than be born here to lay claim to these special powers. It implies that it’s everyone else’s bad luck they’re not Americans.

In the case of the Russians, Afghanis, and Chinese, perhaps they are unlucky. But what about the Canadians? Does a Canadian feel burning jealousy every time he turns his gaze southward and bears witness to our monopoly on celebrity dancing shows? Are the French jealous of seeing our political system dissolve into a televised steel-cage death match? Will scores of Australians be bound for the next plane to California because they heard we have dozens of delicious flavors of Rice-A-Roni?

The arguments against American exceptionalism are numerous and oft-repeated, to the point of being chewed meat. Our educational system is in shambles, our health care system stinks, the Kardashians, yadda yadda yadda. Thing is, that’s not even the point. The point is that the very idea, the concept, of exceptionalism speaks to a sense of entitlement that is stunning.

Those gymnasts didn’t win gold because they were American. They won gold because they worked hard and earned it. Now that is worthy of applause.