Happy fuckin’ red, white and blue all you flag-wavin’ hillbillies. Yee haw, let’s blow some shit up.
I have to say, this 4th of July is looking to be one of the finest in my three-year life. We started this past weekend off with a bona fide redneck parTAYYY, and I gotta say, I am totally cut out for this shit: dirt bikes, s’mores, firecrackers, naplessness, trampolines, squirt guns, water balloons, extended bedtimes, Doritos all day every day, and just total lack of responsible caregiving in general. Santa better pull some holy fuckin’ miracles outta Rudolph’s butt this coming Christmas, because Uncle Sam just one-upped his jolly ass.
The weekend started especially awesome, because daddy took me and The Rat to Hollister to Papa Tim and Gramma Jett’s house early in the afternoon on Friday–and we left mommy’s ass at home because she had to work. In a nutshell, it was perfection. I ate Hershey’s chocolate bars for dinner, rode my bike until midnight and got to go to bed in a tent with daddy without brushing my teeth or changing my clothes. Utter sweeeetness. For anyone who’s keeping track, it doesn’t get much better than this. The next morning, I got to pretty much do it all again. Mommy showed up around 2 p.m. with Hot Hallie and a buzz, but I barely acknowledged her as I wheeled in and out and around tables, chairs and pop-up tent poles on my bicycle. After I ignored her request for a hug and sped away from her remark about my black toenails, she went in search of cups, ice, and vodka with an always-mommy’s girl Leona in her arms. Whatever. Who needs a mom when there is an Uncle Nate trying to hit me in the face with a water balloon? Fuckin’ A, not the Gusman.
The day ensued with plenty of burgers, dogs, steaks, and the lot of traditional side dishes, but I didn’t pay much attention. I was busy riding dirt bikes and throwing rocks at Uncle Nate. Mommy got pretty stumbly around 8 P.M., but shockingly enough, daddy took home the Inebriation Nation plaque. He was talking very funny, and by funny, I mean Japanese. Every time I would ask him for another dirt bike ride, mommy would cock her head, grin like a retard, say I don’t think so, and pick me up and bring me to some candy. Which was cool with me. I caught on after the third request for a bike ride. Anyway, there were plenty of driveway fireworks, mommy and I had a sword fight with glow sticks, somewhere along the line I ended back up in the tent, and the hag actually remembered to put a diaper on me. Somewhere between 1 and 3 a.m., we all ended up on a quickly deflating air mattress. Fortunately for them, they had seven bottles of wine and a half-gallon of vodka, which meant they didn’t know their shut-eye arrangements to be any different from a lush, king-size bed with Egyptian cotton sheets at a hotel room in Vegas. And I, of course, had eleven straight hours of bike-riding or trampoline-jumping to keep me sedated.
Somewhere between six tents snoring like dying raccoons and cock-a-doodle-doo, I felt a swarming warming around my inner thighs and belly. Apparently, I had four too-many Capri Suns for my cheap-ass Safeway diaper to handle. I rolled over and prepared to go back to sleep as I always do when I piss myself, but the river flowed to daddy’s side of the mattress, and he actually woke up.
“What the fuck, I’m covered in piss,” he mumbled. Mommy just shushed him and told him to go back to sleep. Which he did. A couple of hours later, we all woke up at the same time, mommy, stretching and moaning good morning, me, smiling and asking if I could go ride my bike, and daddy dropping F-bombs because he smelled like urine. Mommy squealed at him not to touch her as he tried to roll out from the middle of the 50% inflated mattress, and I thought the whole mess was pretty fucking funny. No less than fifteen minutes later, daddy had showered, mommy had downed two cups of coffee and was pouring a vodka soda, and I was being summoned to the bath tub. It took mommy a lot of elbow grease to clean me up, but at the end of the scrub-down, she had given up on the bottoms of my feet and ankles. They were still black. She claimed she had a bucket of bleach at home that she would fill the kiddie pool up with later.
The third day ended with mommy passing out in the mini-van while Uncle Nate drove home, daddy rode his Harley, and a massive amount of greasy Mexican food ended up on our kitchen island at some point later in the evening. Daddy grunted nonsense a lot while he ate, and mommy just kept looking at all of us with a blank expression. Me and The Rat were dunzo, though, and went to bed without any sort of argument. The next day, I was sad because I woke up to Multi-Grain Cheerios and milk for breakfast instead of Scrabble Cheez-Its, but whatever. I have my memories.
I hope all of you have as much fun tomorrow as I had this weekend. The plan is to check out a parade in the morning, BBQ in the afternoon, and see some fireworks at night. I don’t know if my parents can stay sober enough to drive me to the light show, so I will likely end up getting into the lighter stash in my mom’s jewelry box to light my ass on fire. I’ve given up on asking mom to pull my finger every ten seconds; she just purses her lips like an ugly nun, scoffs, and threatens a time-out. The trick is to pull your own finger. If you can master that shit, who needs the hag? I can make my own Fourth of Joooly fire-farts in my back fucking yard.
God Bless the U.S.A.