SO IT BEGINS

🎇 AH YES, JULY 4th.
It kicks off before sunrise. Grill Dad steps onto the patio — solo, silent, already sweating.
Everyone else is asleep. He’s not.
He’s been strategizing this moment since Memorial Day.
By the time the neighborhood starts brewing coffee, he’s outside cracking a Coors Banquet and spritzing down a pork shoulder like he’s gunning for a trophy and a parking lot mural.

By late morning, the front yard transforms.
Crockpots arrive. Lawn chairs appear.
A fruit salad starts to sweat.
Children — some of them yours — roam freely, sticky and feral. Parental supervision is on holiday.
The weird neighbors have emerged. One’s in an American flag romper, standing near the grill uninvited, offering unsolicited opinions about propane.
Someone brought red, white, and blue Jell-O shots — solid call, as there is also a slip ‘n slide.
The parade came and went. A man in a sequin jacket wandered into the backyard, handed out Werther’s Originals, and left. Nobody knows who he was.

By mid-afternoon, the heat has turned criminal.
You’ve sweated through your shirt, your sunscreen, and your will to host.
The flag cake is bleeding food coloring like a crime scene at a daycare.
You just spoke to a neighbor you thought had moved. Turns out, they just work remote — which, emotionally, is the same.
One dad’s already shirtless. One mom’s already barefoot. And a toddler is unsupervised with a glow stick in their mouth.

Then the sun begins to dip.
Then it begins.

🎆 Fireworks Guy is on the scene.
Probably dehydrated. Definitely over-served. Possibly flammable.
He’s got a box labeled “Sky Assailant: Deluxe” and a Bic lighter he hasn’t let go of since Tuesday.
He’s lighting shells off a trash can lid with the swagger of a man who thinks OSHA is a liberal conspiracy.
Claims he got the good stuff from Alabama… by way of China.

Across the street, Pet Crusader Lady is watching through her blinds like a hostage negotiator. She’s been posting infographics about canine PTSD for five straight days and printed yard signs that say: “Fireworks Kill Freedom Too.”
She’s already reported three neighbors to Nextdoor.
The sun isn’t even down. She’s ready to declare martial law.

By 8:45, the Backup Terry jokes are well-worn.
Somebody’s got a Roman candle. Someone else is filming vertically.
Everyone’s screaming, “Put it in reverse, Terry!” like it’s still 2017.
And guess what? It still kinda kills.

Then come the pubescent pyromaniacs. Shirtless boys with bottle rockets, Bluetooth speakers, and no concept of trajectory. They’re in the drainage ditch, on the roof, inside the inflatable pool.
You briefly consider asking Pet Crusader Lady for her weighted vest. But now it’s down to firecrackers — smaller, louder, aimed directly at someone’s flip-flops.
Nothing good happens from here.

It’s 10:47 p.m.
Someone’s yelling, “I swear to God I will come out there!”
They won’t.
Nothing changes.

📉 Final damage report:
One singed eyebrow. A sparkler mishap. All digits accounted for.
You’ve consumed 10,000mg of sodium and haven’t peed since 3 p.m.
Your kidneys have filed for emancipation.
Your cul-de-sac looks like Fallujah.

Loud, sweaty, overcooked, under-supervised — and absolutely…
America the Beautiful.

There’s freedom in the chaos, tradition in the nonsense, and pride in that charred piece of meat you’re not sure is safe to eat anymore.
So, have a blast — safely.
And maybe… don’t talk politics after that third Bud Light.
Unless you’re ready to debate inflation with a man in jorts and an apron that reads:
“You can’t beat my meat.”

Happy 4th, y’all.
- WW