I’ve Never Dominated Anything More Than I Dominated July 4th…

Joey Boats

Shameless Disclaimer: Absolute hiatus on my end. I haven’t blogged in roughly a week and I’m probably rusty but we’ll find out. Time will tell and time’s undefeated but time has yet to run into a brick wall. It’s time to give time that blue collar, middle America, 9-5, boot straps, tooth and nail, steak and eggs, salt of the Earth effort I’ve been dishing out since the Clinton administration.

When push comes to shove, July 4th ranks pretty high on my holiday draft board and, as always, I answered the bell…

For starters, I kicked off the day in the traditional sense: unreasonably hungover. There’s just something about rolling into a paid holiday with a pregame buzz. The Capri Suns flow like wine and the beautiful women flock like the salmon of Capistrano.

Donning my finest cargo shorts, I whipped down to a family friend’s cottage and managed to drill a week’s recommended intake of sodium before anyone could even question me on my remarkably underwhelming occupational endeavors.

Turns out the place I attended had this saltwater pool—next level, “fuck you” type stuff—across from a private beach; and when I say “private,” I’m basically just referring to an area of sand with slightly less people than the glorified mosh pit everyone pays $40 to park near.

So I get there and, as is tradition, proceed to deny the inaugural onslaught of sunscreen offers. Every Summer you can set your watch to me disregarding my Irish heritage and refusing skin protection, only to look like burnt rubber the next morning.

I don’t know why I do it either, but I want to say it’s an ego thing. For some reason, there’s a considerable part of me that’s low-key convinced I’m stronger than the sun. Like, if the sun and I squared off outside some dive bar in South Boston, I’m confident I wouldn’t end up stiff as a board, sucking wind on the WorldStar message boards the following day.

After a couple ill-advised trips to the keg, we tossed on the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest because, in America, we inhale ungodly volumes of saturated fat for sport. Over the next ten minutes, we watched as twenty federationally sanctioned morons muscled down troughs of uncured beef in Afghanistan-like conditions. I argue it’s our country’s lowest annual moment…

I mean, imagine having the following conversation on the way out the door:

Poor Woman: “Honey, where are you going?”

Ludicrous Human Being: “Oh, I’m just heading out to woof down 70+ boiled sausages in front of an audience of drunk sociopaths on ESPN2.”

How do you look at yourself in the mirror after that? Just disgraceful behavior, but I digress…

After migrating to the beach, obligatory conversation ensued. For the record, there are few things New Englanders love more than misinformed shark discussion. Every year, the USA Network starts spraying out rebroadcasts of Jaws and suddenly everyone with access to the 5 o’clock news is a closet elasmobranchologist.

For context, picture a bunch of bloated Massholes sweating out Natty Lights on a sandbar, recklessly belting out things like “Yeah dood, I guess they spotted a couple bull shahhhks near Scituate. Due to the tide frequency, those cocksuckahhhs won’t come down here though.”

Like okay dude, then why even bring it up? That’s like getting on a flight and reassuring the cabin there’s little chance anyone smuggled a pipe bomb onto the tarmac due to the increased security measures. Maybe I’m just overly deferential, but I enter most situations confident I won’t tragically die and I’d like to preserve that frame of mind.

Following a few more minutes of shark talk, we ventured back to the house where I proceeded to go on an absolute HEATER in Cornhole/Spikeball. If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I don’t fuck around in cookout sports. I treat the backyard like the Roman Coliseum so if we’re rubbing elbows on the same lawn, you better be ready to get that work.

Finished the day with a record of 13-1.

The loss came during the late hours and I can’t lie, it was a tough one to swallow. A lesser American would’ve made excuses. A lesser American would’ve blamed booze, fatigue, or the sun—which was directly in my eyes the entire game—but not me. A loss is a loss is a loss, even if it only happened because I’d been drinking, playing for five hours straight, and blinded by sunlight.

It’s whatever, though. When you’ve been at the top for so long, the only story left to write is the fall, even if it shouldn’t have even counted…

Last Note: Fireworks are the most overrated aspect of American culture, more so than 3D movies and guacamole combined. I get it’s tradition but I’m not compromising sleep to watch things explode for 45 minutes while the guy next to me incorrectly predicts “Here comes the finale!” five times before everything ultimately concludes.

When it comes down to it, the only entertaining aspect of a public pyrotechnic display is the dick measuring contest that erupts between all the middle-aged guys on the shore who brought their own ammo. Dad hopped in the Tacoma and dropped a couple stacks in New Hampshire last weekend and he’ll be DAMNED if he doesn’t prove it…

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)

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