I believe we should honor all them who gave up their lives and other choice body parts just so that the rest of us can live under the blessings of autonomous freedom, don’t you agree? So every Fourth of July I invite the in-laws over for my patented barbecued fried chicken – every last lip-smacking one of them.
When you honor the departed, it’s best to keep a moment of silence. Well we bettered that principle once over again. We don’t say nary a word when we tear those chickens apart. That’s the least can do to show our respect. And I’m here to tell you -- those boys can eat! Those bones pile up all around just like our heroes did right there on the shores of Montezuma.
Boy, I can’t even count the garbage bags we filled up with chicken bones the last Fourth. Why, we plum ran through the whole frigidator and even the spare one downstairs. So I had to pay an emergency visit to Colonel Sanders, himself a war hero, and got back just in time too.
And at the end of the day, when we retire to the back port to watch them fireworks go off, why, all you hear is burbs – sort of like the frog pond out back. It’s so sad to see all the assorted relatives head home after the last ka-pow fades in the sky. But this year I’m determined to keep up the fun year round. How?
Well, every now and again I haul out those bags of bones, open ‘em up, and just feast my eyes on all those ribs and thigh bones and what-not, and relive the stirring moments of yesteryear’s patriotic fervor. It can downright bring tears to a man’s eyes. The missus says, yes, she understands, and that if I feel so strongly about, why to go right ahead, and she’ll support me.
You know, I’ve heard it said, “You don’t appreciate nothing until you lose it,” well, sir, rest assured I don’t plan on losing these here bags! No, sir!
