And then it happened. On the Fourth of July, while fireworks lit up the sky, popping and crackling in the air, my dad's internal organs opened up with explosives of their own. Our family cheers rivaled those of the partygoers on the street.
Who strategizes your parking rules? Tywin Lannister? Whoever it is deserves some kind of genius award because they foil me every single time, not that it's hard because I also have other brain disorders like thinking I'm only going to need 60 minutes at the hair salon and believing no one would have the heart to fine me for crossing half a fingernail into a red zone.
Attention professional weather prognosticators, TV meteorologists, National Hurricane Center forecasters and anyone whose number one conversation topic centers around Fourth of July weekend atmospheric conditions. Yes, that includes this nation's grandpas.
"Phillip" is what you'll see written on my husband's birth certificate, and his family has never called him anything other than Phillip. He's never gone by anything else in his life. His name has two syllables in it: Phil-lip. You can clap it out if you want to.
Every year in July, Americans wearing their washed-out flag shirts from 2000 gather together on an open field with picnic blankets and folding chairs to partake in the Sisyphean task of capturing the best moments of a fireworks show on camera.
The world is a mess. If you who focus on what's going on today you will become depressed, lose sleep and entertain thoughts of suicide. By clouding thought and blunting concentration, mindlessness obstructs the intrusion of menacing reality.
eHarmony Gabe's soul is every bit as kind as I had anticipated. There is also every bit as much chemistry between the two of us as I had anticipated -- er, every bit as little? There is zero chemistry. Just zero.
Yesterday, a loser teen was gifted Oh, the Places You'll Go! in earnest and completely without irony. The Dr. Seuss book, a graduation-season perennial favorite, was given to the seventeen-year-old by his mother.
SOOTHSAYER: Oedipus, my lord, I've got some bad news for you.
A little while back, a friend of mine performed in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He said the shows were lightly attended, with a couple dipping well below the 100-person mark.