We're not that different, you and I. We share many common interests. Breathing, for one. I'm sure we both like that activity. Chances are that we dislike a lot of the same things, too. Cancer. Mimes. Our photos from the mid 90's.
But the Fourth of July weekend is a time to share a lot of these likable common interests with a lot of people. Beer. Dangerous explosions. Grilling meat. Floating in vessels on water. Staying in the sun.
These simple activities date back to the cavemen days, I'm positive. Ya know how I know? Because I feel like a caveman when I'm partaking in them.
'Look. Light in sky. Beer me. Oooga booga. Put meat on fire. Fooga Dooga. Beer me again. More light in sky. More meat. Check her out.'
Not much has changed, has it? I'm not saying that I don't love it. Because I do. And I find I make a pretty damn good caveman guy. I've got hairy shoulders and I draw like they did. Not like those ridiculous Geico apes, though. With the snide comebacks, techno music and tennis shorts. Nah, I prefer jorts. I digress.
But this weekend has once again proven to me that most folks are inherently simple. And that is a great thing.
If the sheer celebration of the fourth of July involved any more than sitting around, conversing with friends, drinking hooch and peeing in pools/rivers/lakes all day, than I think we'd be doing something wrong as a country. What, like ya don't do it. Just go. Nobody cares. Ya think someone cares? Who? Nobody, that's who. Dick Nobody. Actually a cool guy, just a weird name.
We contributed to this independance celebration all weekend long. We floated a river on Friday. It's always an event. Who's got the cooler? How many tubes? Where do ya keep the wallets? Keys? Locking the car? The stress levels pre-river floating are monumental. For something that's supposed to be as relaxing as floating in an inner-tube down a shallow river, it sure is a damned event to get to it. There's a waiver. A guy with a bull horn barking out commands.
'RIGHT, RIGHT, LEFT' he says.
He must be really good at floating in a tube down a river, I'm thinking. He was once the best, I bet. Just listen to how well he knows this slow-moving body of foot deep water! Better listen to him or else we're done for.
Once you're on the river, though, that's when the fun begins. It took us an hour to go 15 yards. People love it. Don't you dare arm paddle. Just enjoy it. ENJOY it.
Until ya your ass bottom's out on Plymouth Rock and ya flop into the rapids, you drunk piece of shit. Keys fly away. Wallet gets douched. Friends laugh/point. Girlfriend yells 'You loser' at you in between frenches with a local. You put your feet down river and try that technique you saw in that one movie. Life flashes before your eyes. There's the one that got away and you realize you didn't tell your family you love them enough. Eyes fill with tears. Rocks scrape canyons into your ass cheeks. Bat-like shriek emits from your nose.
All of the sudden a girl/angel grabs you by the shoulders and stands you up. The water was 8 inches deep. You ARE a loser. And you're crying. A crying loser that bat-shrieks from his nose and gets saved by tiny angel-girls half your size. She's hot, though, you see. Where's the beer, you wonder.
You make me sick.
(This has never happened to me, btw.
I always tell my family I love them.)