posted on July 05, 2012 09:42
It’s Independence Day, folks, Fourth of Mother Fucking July. Grab your balls, spit and sing along to Toby Keith, Lee Greenwood and Martina McBride. It’s our day. It’s the day some men who actually had a ball sack about them signed The Declaration of Independence and told Great Britain, their jacked up teeth and annoying-ass accents to collectively get fucked.
And we celebrate this glorious day by doing exactly what we do to all of them, commercializing the shit out of them. On Christmas, we see who can outdo the other in the way of gifting, Valentine’s Day was created for the retail industry and apparently on Easter, Jesus rose from the grave, dressed as a bunny and hid eggs all over the place from the best I can decipher.
But we celebrate this one in the stupidest of manners. The entire country, especially south of the Mason-Dixon Line, basically attaches $20-bills to a stick and sends them flying into the air to hear a “POW” and attain a chubby while doing so. It’s literally the biggest waste of money this side of The Hangover 2.
Sorry, little Billy, Mom and Dad can’t afford little league. Susie, voice lessons are a ridiculous waste of money. $500-john boat that could provide some quality family time or a weekend at the lake? What, am I made of money? Now sit back and watch me send a thousand dollars bursting up into the air and fetch me another Stag.
If you look at it with clarity and some sense of reasoning, I challenge any of you to make the argument that this is a worthy investment. You can sit directly under, in multiple venues, the biggest display of fireworks since the glorious loins of a woman first sat on the bridge of your nose and don’t have to pay a dime to do so. But the privilege of actually being the macho asshole to light a wick somehow convinces us to part with our hard earned cash and the “buy one, get 17-free” bargains on every corner.
Whistle, whistle, boom-boom! I just came in my pants. How do you not see the arousal of this exercise? There’s nothing quite as rewarding as getting drunker than 7-Indians, gorging on BBQ and sending your paycheck up in the air. Never mind that you can watch your idiot neighbor waste the child support he should be paying from his last 2-marriages on “street sizzlers” and “flaming darts”, I’m not a man if I don’t secure my own empty bottle and the ammunition to fill it with.
You’re also all obviously aware that the trash just vaporizes into thin air too, correct? Giant exhibitions on lakes and rivers, have no worries, fish love those sticks and papers. Half-retarded neighborhood teenagers will spend the month leading up to, and will continue for the month after, firing bottle rockets at each other instead of investing their free time into more rewarding outlets, like chasing pussy. Then I’ll mow the leftover garbage in my yard until Thanksgiving.
Jesus Christ I hate this fucking holiday and all it’s come to be about. Nothing is sacred anymore. Retail muddles up the true meaning of holidays for capital gain and we all play along like pan fish on the other end of a bobber. The founding of our great country, birth of our supposed Savior or his “return from the dead”, these are apparently not solid enough excuses to stand on their own, enjoy some camaraderie and celebrate the company of family you’d usually choose not to be the fuck around the other 364-days of the year.
Nope, we have to buy each other shit, fill baskets with peanut butter eggs (fucking glorious by the way) or play “who has the bigger dick” with the neighbor by outspending one another on airborne trash. Enjoy the fourth, people. Blow shit up, hoot and holler and know that I’m in my bed cursing every “BAM” and redneck “America!” shout I hear.
“We’ll put a boot in your ass, it’s the American way”…KMFP-out!