A Fourth of July adventure.
My Fourth of July story began on the third of July. I came over to Richard's house at eight PM, after seeing Toy Story 3 with my family. For the record, that movie made me cry. Twice. And assure my mom that I'd never leave ever again. And when I stopped by home I hugged all my old toys and promised to play with them more.
Anyway, we decided to go to Leela's, but first stopped off at the pharmacy, where I shoplifted a french manicure kit, for me, and a foundation brush, for Richard. Once we arrived at Leela's we bought coffee and had a very long conversation, covering the usual topics - immortal youth, reincarnation, and vast, incomprehensible wealth. The moral of the conversation was, we needed to kidnap a sorta-toddler named Brooke Greenberg, who possibly holds the genetic code that could lead to immortality, as a result of a condition that is estimated to occur in 1 out of 6 and a half billion (in other words, it's the only condition of its kind in the world). Wiki her, it's fascinating shit.
Also, I am a total creep for being obsessed with this sorta-toddler.
We returned to his house at about two in the morning, where I began to give myself a french manicure. Slowly, the house filled with acrylic fumes, and we became rather disoriented, laughing at nothing, even at the nail varnish ruining his roommate's table. I realized, once the task was completed, that I could not take my contacts out, and thus had to pry the nails off. On the bright side, no money was wasted.
I woke up at noon the next day, and realized the dress I'd brought was complete sheer, and my underwear was a little too hilarious that day. I made the decision to go commando on the Fourth of July. My part of the war effort. We returned to Leela's to eat, and to see if there was anything cool going on downtown. The only interesting thing was a wheelchair race, but we did not stick around for it. I still wish I'd seen it.
Richard called our friend Garrett, and we agreed that we really wanted to set off fireworks and see shit explode. Unfortunately, fireworks are illegal in the state of Colorado.
Thus, we decided to go to Wyoming.
"It's a wonderful day for a hate crime." Garrett sighed.
We left at seven, and got about halfway there before a torrential downpour forced us to pull over at a Taco Bell rest stop to wait it out. While there, Garrett made the greatest reference and the most insensitive yet incredible joke:
"That lady's hair looks like that teacher's who died in the Challenger explosion."
The three of us proceeded to crack our shit up.
The rain ended, and we continued to Wyoming. We arrived in Cheyenne, and set out to get our hands on some explosives.
We cracked up again when we realized that our group was two gay guys and a girl with no underwear, and we were in the county where Matthew Shepard was murdered.
"This is going to end so well."
We bought $50 worth of fireworks at a wonderful store named, I kid you not, Pyro City. Richard picked up the directions to a nearby shooting site, and we were off.
While waiting in line for our site, Garrett and I talked about basically everything you really, really, really shouldn't around drunk rednecks carrying explosives: the true race of Jesus, fucking John Kennedy in the hole in his head, that episode of Nip/Tuck where Rosie O'Donnell gets fucked on a tiger pelt, me getting an abortion and having a party for it, how Lincoln probably had a little top hat for his penis, and, finally, the politicians we would bang (I chose Rahm Emanuel; Garrett chose Nancy Pelosi).
"You guys are gonna get fucking murdered," Richard muttered, before yelling, "FOR THE RECORD, I AM A REGISTERED REPUBLICAN!"
Finally, we arrived at our shooting site; that is, a small part of the field with a numbered box from which we were to shoot fireworks.
"I'll light them," Garrett said, "I'm Mexican, I am a faster runner than you white people, from all that fence-hopping."
Richard and I agreed.
We set off several Roman candles before Richard yelled, "OKAY, GUYS, I AM HOLDING AN ENORMOUS BOX OF FIREWORKS CALLED THE "YO MAMA" AND THERE ARE SMALL FLAMES FALLING ALL AROUND US, PLEASE LET ME SET THIS OFF SO I DON'T DIE."
We continued to set off fireworks and ran from the ensuing flames as they came kind of toward us, reveling in this moment of complete and total wimpery in the red, sweaty face of redneck misogyny. Finally, it got too cold, especially for me, so we returned to the car, still with several illegal fireworks that we eventually brought back to Colorado.
Before we left, we stopped off at a gas station to get coffee, and found that it was the town hotspot for Pagan teenagers and fat people. We stood outside - me smoking, Garrett eating an Almond Joy, and Richard eating an ice cream sandwich - and made fun of the townies. Hey, when you're from Colorado, it is a rare occasion to be more worldly than others.
A few hours later, I am here, sitting on Richard's couch, listening to Lady Gaga. Comes with the territory of being a certified faghag. Happy Fourth of July, everyone! And please do not be too offended at the horrible, wrong, sick jokes that I have recounted here! I'm merely an equal opportunity humorist!
Anyway, we decided to go to Leela's, but first stopped off at the pharmacy, where I shoplifted a french manicure kit, for me, and a foundation brush, for Richard. Once we arrived at Leela's we bought coffee and had a very long conversation, covering the usual topics - immortal youth, reincarnation, and vast, incomprehensible wealth. The moral of the conversation was, we needed to kidnap a sorta-toddler named Brooke Greenberg, who possibly holds the genetic code that could lead to immortality, as a result of a condition that is estimated to occur in 1 out of 6 and a half billion (in other words, it's the only condition of its kind in the world). Wiki her, it's fascinating shit.
Also, I am a total creep for being obsessed with this sorta-toddler.
We returned to his house at about two in the morning, where I began to give myself a french manicure. Slowly, the house filled with acrylic fumes, and we became rather disoriented, laughing at nothing, even at the nail varnish ruining his roommate's table. I realized, once the task was completed, that I could not take my contacts out, and thus had to pry the nails off. On the bright side, no money was wasted.
I woke up at noon the next day, and realized the dress I'd brought was complete sheer, and my underwear was a little too hilarious that day. I made the decision to go commando on the Fourth of July. My part of the war effort. We returned to Leela's to eat, and to see if there was anything cool going on downtown. The only interesting thing was a wheelchair race, but we did not stick around for it. I still wish I'd seen it.
Richard called our friend Garrett, and we agreed that we really wanted to set off fireworks and see shit explode. Unfortunately, fireworks are illegal in the state of Colorado.
Thus, we decided to go to Wyoming.
"It's a wonderful day for a hate crime." Garrett sighed.
We left at seven, and got about halfway there before a torrential downpour forced us to pull over at a Taco Bell rest stop to wait it out. While there, Garrett made the greatest reference and the most insensitive yet incredible joke:
"That lady's hair looks like that teacher's who died in the Challenger explosion."
The three of us proceeded to crack our shit up.
The rain ended, and we continued to Wyoming. We arrived in Cheyenne, and set out to get our hands on some explosives.
We cracked up again when we realized that our group was two gay guys and a girl with no underwear, and we were in the county where Matthew Shepard was murdered.
"This is going to end so well."
We bought $50 worth of fireworks at a wonderful store named, I kid you not, Pyro City. Richard picked up the directions to a nearby shooting site, and we were off.
While waiting in line for our site, Garrett and I talked about basically everything you really, really, really shouldn't around drunk rednecks carrying explosives: the true race of Jesus, fucking John Kennedy in the hole in his head, that episode of Nip/Tuck where Rosie O'Donnell gets fucked on a tiger pelt, me getting an abortion and having a party for it, how Lincoln probably had a little top hat for his penis, and, finally, the politicians we would bang (I chose Rahm Emanuel; Garrett chose Nancy Pelosi).
"You guys are gonna get fucking murdered," Richard muttered, before yelling, "FOR THE RECORD, I AM A REGISTERED REPUBLICAN!"
Finally, we arrived at our shooting site; that is, a small part of the field with a numbered box from which we were to shoot fireworks.
"I'll light them," Garrett said, "I'm Mexican, I am a faster runner than you white people, from all that fence-hopping."
Richard and I agreed.
We set off several Roman candles before Richard yelled, "OKAY, GUYS, I AM HOLDING AN ENORMOUS BOX OF FIREWORKS CALLED THE "YO MAMA" AND THERE ARE SMALL FLAMES FALLING ALL AROUND US, PLEASE LET ME SET THIS OFF SO I DON'T DIE."
We continued to set off fireworks and ran from the ensuing flames as they came kind of toward us, reveling in this moment of complete and total wimpery in the red, sweaty face of redneck misogyny. Finally, it got too cold, especially for me, so we returned to the car, still with several illegal fireworks that we eventually brought back to Colorado.
Before we left, we stopped off at a gas station to get coffee, and found that it was the town hotspot for Pagan teenagers and fat people. We stood outside - me smoking, Garrett eating an Almond Joy, and Richard eating an ice cream sandwich - and made fun of the townies. Hey, when you're from Colorado, it is a rare occasion to be more worldly than others.
A few hours later, I am here, sitting on Richard's couch, listening to Lady Gaga. Comes with the territory of being a certified faghag. Happy Fourth of July, everyone! And please do not be too offended at the horrible, wrong, sick jokes that I have recounted here! I'm merely an equal opportunity humorist!