Fourth of July in Empire
Pop! Pop! Pop!
The mayhem had commenced on my street and dusk had not yet settled over Empire.
Earlier in the day, President Trump had signed the Big Beautiful Bill into law.
I went to my front window to investigate the mayhem and observed two, obese, approximately 12-year-old white boys wearing tight shorts and tight t-shirts throwing snap dragons on the pavement.
One of the boys assumed a squatting position reminiscent of taking a dump in the woods. He raised his arms and clenched his fists in the manner of President Trump on stage at a rally. The friend tossed snap dragons his direction.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
I heard them laughing. Then I heard the squatter yell, “I’m going to fart!” I couldn’t see his face. Did I want to?
The boy’s body contorted as he ripped his fart. Then he abruptly stood up and shook his ass awkwardly.
“I shit my pants!” he yelled. “I shit my pants!”
I believed him. Boys do not lie about such things. Other things, yes.
His friend howled and tossed more dragon snaps at him.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
The boy who shit his pants began to dance.
I was witnessing an American boy shit his pants on the Fourth of July accompanied by the cacophony of dragon snaps (and other fireworks) and dance in the aftermath.
He did not go inside to change. He kept dancing and his friend kept tossing snap dragons.
And thus I was gifted an indelible new metaphor for the current state of American life.
Gifted?