This bitch was maybe not specifically at the 4th of July fireworks show I attended with my family this year but at least 10 of her sisters or cousins were. This heifer is the epitome of a redneck. I could MAYBE hold a red party cup in my titties but with a Burger King crown to boot?! Wow, she takes the cake---the Jello poke cake with Cool Whip topping that is. Though it is not visible in this photo, she is rocking a DF---Double FUPA. I have addressed this phenomenon before but for those unaware of it's correct anatomical name, it is an acronym for Fat Upper Pussy Area. But when it is a DOUBLE it is quite special. I did a spit take when I saw my first. A FUPA creates a camouflaged area of flub over the pussy but a double FUPA can act as a fleshy fanny pack. I am aghast at the visual images in my mind... She can bury a pastrami and smoked Gouda panini sandwich in there and melt it to gooey perfection. She can smuggle weapons into a theme park. Who would frisk between those layers?! She could lay on top of the jewelry counter when the sales person turns away and swallow that diamond tennis bracelet like a 6-pack of sliders. The possibilities are ENDLESS. Okay, for those of you sporting a FUPA, I'll quit picking on you. I'm a mean bitch.
The fireworks displays in any given city in America tend to drag every specimen of society out of the woodwork. It's like Walmart on a big lawn with beer and pyrotechnics. You see wealthy families with their plaid Burberry blankets and crystal margarita glasses packed neatly in their Williams-Sonoma picnic baskets. You see families with 8 kids running around liked crazed crackheads in a bank heist. You see average moms and dads, chilling with their ice cold Mike's Hard Black Cherry Lemonade bottles in hand. Then you see Felicia Fupa and her husband with three teeth missing from his Coors Light-induced beer grin, Salem smoke dangling between his lips, Nascar shirt all stained and sleeves cut-off pull up in their pick-up. They have already downed a 6-pack to get a "head start on this USA party" in the car on the ride over. And they park their fleece, bald eagle blanket just close enough to your family that you can listen in on their commentary.
"John Henry, you git your ass over here before I whoop it good! Don't make me use my belt!"
Nice. Pure class. May I have a taste of your macaroni salad that's been sitting out in the sun since noon? It's hissing but looks delicious.
Along with the menagerie of circus freaks, there is a soundtrack which accompanies our fireworks display every year, graciously funded by the residents of our community and our tax dollars. Every year it is the same collection of songs, a few all-American classics, and a shitload of country. I have no problem with one country song, even two if it's someone more contemporary and mullet-free, like Carrie Underwood. But when that twangy-ass crap blasts for 20 minutes straight I'll be God-damned if I feel like an American. I feel like eating some of FUPA Felicia's polk cake, making a shrine to Mary out of my bathtub in my front yard, and asking a cousin out on a date. In other words, IT'S MOTHER-FUCKING REDNECK. Cut it the hell out, Mayor. I pay taxes out my ass, I truly enjoy this massive quantity of explosions and oohs and aaahs they induce. But you are appealing to a minuscule portion of the population with that shit. Knock it the fuck off before I invite a bus load of tweaked out meth heads to start a rave in the middle of your country jamboree.
I really AM proud to be an American. It is the best country to live in in the world, in my humble opinion. I have freedoms and liberties I am grateful for every day. I bow down to the soldiers who have fought for my freedom and who continue to do so. The 4th of July fireworks always give me the chills. It makes make feel highly patriotic. I get misty eyed and think of both of my grandfathers who fought in World War II. I think of those I know going off to serve our country, those who are married to them and wait for their return. It is for all of them I celebrate this day. But fuck-me-gently with a chainsaw, if I hear that white trash, double-wide-lovin' remix again next year, I will take a dump in the shape of Billy Ray Cyrus, lay it on a cottage cheese and green Jello mold, and stick a sparkler in it just for the mayor of Bolingbrook.
God bless America.
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