Hell yeah. July 4th. My favorite time of the year. I’m ready to throw on my American flag dude thong, my “I Just Drank a 1776-pack” tank top, and shave my beard into some baller mutton chops à la Martin Van Buren. I’m throwing my annual Fourth of July rager, and this year, not a single fucking person is invited!
First of all, there’s going to be a live band. Sike! What do I look like? The Lt. Governor of Texas? My party is a thoughtful party and at that kind of party the band members stay home, keeping themselves and their neighbors safe, like every-fucking-body else should be. This virus is, not, in fact, “the common fucking cold.”
Next, let’s talk menu. I’ll be manning the grill (duh!) dishing out all the classics: burgers, brats, dogs, maybe even a few T-bones. With all the fixins your hearts desire: charred peppers, diced onions, green relish, mustard, ketchup, plus a special Mojo sauce I learned about from that Netflix show with David Chang – Unattractive Tasty? Hideous Yum Yums? Whatever. Point is, the picnic table is going to be loaded up as far as the eye can Oh, Say Can You Fucking See.
Once I’m done pitmastering, I’m going to enjoy an American flag paper plate of each dish, maybe go back for seconds of the pasta salad. Then, when I’m full, I’m going to throw it all the fuck out because I’m not Rand Paul, who thinks we shouldn’t be listening to doctors and experts anymore.
As for dessert, I’ve got a giant American flag cake, which I will eat the entirety of all by my fucking self. Will it be really lonely? Yes. Will I get a horrible stomachache? For sure. But I’m more than happy to vomit up three pounds of red, white, and blue frosting all over my empty backyard so you and your family don’t get sick. This virus isn’t a joke, like Matt fucking Gaetz seems to fucking think!
Speaking of gasping for air, I emptied my lungs into all these basic-ass pool floats, y’all. I’ve got the swan, the unicorn, the slice of pizza with cupholders, and, of course, a floating beer pong table. And I’m going to crank the Kid Rock up to eleven as I watch those plump fuckers just sit there idly, pushed around by the breeze, because I’m not going to contribute to the spread of an already out-of-control virus just so you can post some fucking content. It’s 2020, y’all. If you’re sharing anything on Instagram and it’s not fighting to end systemic racism, xenophobia, transphobia, or police brutality, you’re fucking doing it wrong.
Alright. I’ve got to go get started setting all this up. I look forward to seeing absolutely none of you here on Saturday because holy shit it shouldn’t be that fucking hard, 130,000 dead people isn’t a fucking hoax!
