We Who Are About to Die Salute You 

Reprinted from Validate This

Forget all that patriotic talk y'all heard from the USA yesterday. The Fourth of July ain't about independence or being 'merican or any of that stuff.

Nope, today is about the one thing that really brings us together as a nation. Blowin' crap up.

Damn, if I don't love a good explosion every now and again. Lessin' there's a good ball of fire in a movie, I think it sucks ass. The more 'splosions, the better.

This is why men who wouldn't drive their own Granny to the hospital for dialysis will drive through four states to buy fireworks. I mean, you can love yer Granny any ol' day of the year, but there's only one day where you can get away with settin' fire to ol' Mister Johnson's barn and that day is today. Hell, Granny would even understand. So would Mister Johnson.

On the Fourth of July, you don't waste yer time fillin' up an ol' coffee can with caterpillars and shoving in a firecracker. Y'all can even lay off maimin' and killin' frogs and cats. Yes sir, on the Fourth, you can go for the big game! Yer relatives, yer friends and, of course, yer self.

Here in 'merica, we have a grand tradition of gettin' real drunk and then seeing how long we can hold a small explosive before we remember we have to throw it. Ain't many of us who don't have a relative or two missin' a finger, or a forearm, from a Fourth of July mishap.

Down at the mighty Michaels' homestead, my Uncle Lorne is the one with the hook for a hand. The great thing 'bout him is that he's missing so much of his arm that he can safely hold all but the biggest fireworks in his steel claw without having to be afeerd of more mutilation.

"Losin' muh paw was the bes' thing that ever happened to me," he tells us every year. Then he gets really drunk and cries for the rest of the night 'cuz he can't jerk off anymore without piercing his cock like a worm on a fishing hook. Sometimes, he even shows us the scabs and we all have a good, cruel laugh at his expense.

Anyhoo, Pa always gets into the spirit of things by blowin' up the grill at the start of the affair. Two bottles of lighter fluid, a match and a fast pair of sprintin' legs is all it takes to send the charcoal into orbit. You'd think Ma would have caught on that Pa's doin' it on purpose, but she seems caught off guard every year, which explains all the burn scars on her face.

Without any hope for food, as Ma is bein' rushed to the local burn center and Pa is too busy gettin' all of the ordinance from the secret bunker, we turn to drinkin'. Pa usually has a few surprises for the firework display that he saved from 'Nam. One year, Pa got the coordinates wrong and we ended up napalming ourselves. Man, we laughed 'bout that one for hours.

Usually Pa doesn't have everything quite set up 'fore some fool just starts lightin' everything up. Sure, it ain't the most controlled display in the world, but what it lacks in style it makes up for in violence. We like to compare each blast to explosions we've seen in movies and on TV. A weak 'splosion might be compared to the TV show "CHiPs." A really big one might be compared to the mint scene in "Monty Python's Meaning of Life." There's only ever been one really big one, God rest Cousin Brett's soul.

We all sit around after the last 'splosion, smokin' cigerettes and havin' that "complete" feelin'. Then we enter the charred remains of the ol' house to sleep off the hooch and thank God for makin' us 'merican.

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