the united states of not giving a F*.

red rocket's glare?
c'mon.
more like a melee of midair burstin' bombs, b!tchbags!!
fireworks.
fire works.
it sure does.
'splosions, y'all.
the only redeeming quality in a parade-laden spectacle
of ogling ogres and corpulent microcephalics?
maybe.
i mean,
but for the fireworks, america's birthday can suckle it.
if only because of those sparkle-flowers in the sky,
cannon-spit hot fireballs of multi-colored magic,
i say huzzah to our 234th birthday as an independent nation.
y'know what i'm talking about?
if there wasn't a firestorm of chinese fury
raining down on our heads at first dark this evening,
i'd probably just skip the whole thing.
burgers, beers, bad madras shorts, fat moms, ballcaps-
there's a whole lot of semi-comatose patriotic bodymass up here.
(we do live in a vacation town after all.)
i can't hang out with that host of waterbabies, my ninjas.
a whole horde of hot dog hankering hunks of human hunger-
gross.
i maintain a mighty smog about my person every 4th of july.
a swarming swampy swath of searing stench;
bilious, billowing, blowhardy, blue, blazing cigar smoke.
that's right.
my main ninja, mr. arturo fuente, has a stump SO epic,
only the big dons can pull it off.

9 inches of thick, smelly, brown stick.
(that's what she said)
think of it like insect repellent, but for people.
a conversation discourager,
and a mom-proof bubble of noxious, noisome gnarliness.
i mean, not for nothing,
but fireworks are at least partially composed of
nitrogen-rich bird doo-doo, (not as sexy as dead birds, huh?)
and let us not forget the sulphurous brimstone wafting whiffs
of post-eruptive combustion that linger long after the grand finale.
realistically,
i'm just bring the sky a little closer to the people with my
ferocious fumigation, y'know?
that's patriotism.
a little slice of heaven that smells like hell.
if that's not america,
then what the F* are we even doing here?
the bombs are bursting, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....