The 12 Days of the 4th of July

By Matthew Tanzosh

The year is 2018. Amid accusations of impropriety and a lack of respect for his adopted country following the release of poorly lit photographs of his misshapen, Canadian-born cock—President Cruz has declared one day of The 4th of July insufficient. Calling a Joint Session of the United States congress, former Junior Senator and current Chief Executive of the Federal Government and commander in chief of the Army and Navy of the United States, and of the militia of the several states Theodore Cruz declared that the 4th of July being “only one day” was “preposterous” and added, with a wince (although it was difficult to tell, his facial expression always resembling that of a man consensually watching another man pleasure his wife with a stale piece of gorgonzola cheese) that it was “unbefitting of this great nation—this nation, renowned for its conspicuous consumption—to have but one day set aside” for getting drunk and blowing shit up, scaring pets and veterans etc…

It was on that fateful day, 06/22/18, that President Ted Cruz presented the nation with an executive order to “keep Christ in Independence Day”. I won’t force you to parse through the one-thousand seven hundred and seventy six pages of mostly padding—138 drawings of Ted Cruz holding various firearms, 3 recipes pursuant a “bitchin’ bar-b-que”—but chiefly, the order extends the 4th of July to twelve calendar days beginning at 12:00 AM on July 4th, and ending 12 days later at 12:00 AM on July 4th.


It went universally without contest. No one wanted to be the pussy calling for LESS explosions. Who the fuck wants LESS explosions? Local communities leaders are mandated to inform their public of the change, to the relief of local veteran’s associations. Col. Armie Hammer* had this to comment, “As long as we’re given time to mentally prepare ourselves, we’re fine. We won’t mind 12 days of pants-shitting terror at all, as long as we are given fair notice. Let’s just hope that no one gets too excited and fires anything off outside that 12 day hellscape of post traumatic stress. That would be inconsiderate to our boys.”

In the interest of preserving this landmark moment in American history, I will be recording my personal feelings, each of the 12 days of The 4th of July. Because that’s what Journalism is now. Right VICE? RIGHT BUZZFEED? IT’S ALL ABOUT OUR FEELIE WEELIES RIGHT MOTHERFU—


7/4/18—As I gaze off into the middle distance, I see my dog Scruppy enthusiastically investigating the well-manicured anal glands of a stray waaay out of his league. This could mean pups that I can’t afford on my clickbait journalism salary, but I let him go to it. He deserves it. He has no idea of the 12 days of abject terror that await him, the sky falling all around him while my neighbors get drunk and yell encouragement. He hits it raw, dog—and I watch, musing on how fleeting pleasure really is. I’m not much of a patriot, in all honesty, but I’m going to try to go into this whole thing with an open mind and enjoy it.


7/4/18—Last night’s show was pretty good. The local fire department put on quite a show. They did the sizzle-y one, the one that looks like the palm tree and a bunch that looked like smiling faces. I saw a lot of smiling proud faces at the peer they were shooting them off of, it was nice. Even Kenny, from the convenience store showed up—he wore his Purple Heart! The canned music was kind of a disappointment. They ran out of Souza pretty quick and switched to midi-files of Liberty Bell (best known as the Monty Python theme song) and proud to be an American. No country yet though. When they said twelve days of non-stop fireworks, I really thought they meant each night—true to their word however, they have not stopped. Yep. Still going. While I write this. Stiiiiill going.


7/4/18—I spoke to soon. They have now graduated to Toby Keith. The smell of brisket is heavy in the air. My neighbors have taken to watching from their front yard, bathing themselves in a kiddie pool full of Crisco. They call me homophobic slurs for filling my pool with water and not “at least rootbeer”.


7/4/18—So what’s the deal? Is there just an unlimited supply of firemen and beer? And drinking all that beer, do none of them ever have to use the restroom. My dog no longer has any hair, and I can no longer tell the difference between the fireworks and the frequent gunshots. I always liked Kenny, he was a good man, though a little twitchy.


7/4/18—Fuck. Has anyone seen my dog? I had him chained outside, but the chain is broken and I can’t find my antique masonry hammer anywhere. I would have watched him, but my attention has really been all over the place. I didn’t really get to sleep the past couple of nights and I really needed that cigarette. I told Maureen that I quit, but she’s gone anyway. I don’t like when my dog watches me smoke so I went out back and oh god he’s gone just like her.


7/4/18—You ever wonder why you can only hear sounds? Why can’t you smell them? I can now. I can smell sounds and taste lights. They burn. But I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free and I won’t forget the men who died, who gave that right to me. Like Kenny, and Scruppy. Oh god I’m so alone. But at least I can’t hear my own terrible thoughts. I can taste them though.


7/4/18—Did you know that Toby Keith’s father served in the army? I do. Do to a glitch in the system (4 dollar Budweiser tallboys) the playlist is stuck. I have heard about how he continued to fly the American flag in his yard—even though he can only see half of it—roughly 700 times. In his hit song, The Angry American he yodels quoth, “Hey Uncle Sam Put your name at the top of his list/And the Statue of Liberty/Started shakin’ her fist/And the eagle will fly/Man, it’s gonna be hell/When you hear Mother Freedom/Start ringin’ her bell/And it feels like the whole wide world is raining down on you” I didn’t have to look those lyrics up, they now surmise my life. The French statue of liberty hates me, and freedom is ringing it’s multicolored bell. Truly the whole world is raining down on me. My house caught fire last night. All of the firemen are too drunk to do anything but launch more flaming freedom missiles. When Mr. Keith said, “Man, we lit up your world like the 4th of July” he was referring to the bombing of innocents—and I now completely understand this metaphor. It may not have been a metaphor at all. I’m not sure if he is capable. Drones strikes on American soil.


7/4/18—Road kill is missing from my neighbors garbage can, and something has brutally murdered all of the neighborhood cats.


7/4/18—There is no more barbeque and they are now eating each other. Why must we fight. Is it because “we’ll put a boot in your ass?” because “it’s the American way?”. My neighbors have filled my pool with Crisco. They etch offensive slogans into my pool liner with time worn bowie knives. I hear a howling at night.


7/4/18—Scruppy is back, but he is not the same. He still recognizes me as his master, and as a result my neighbors are now dead. Good boy. Good good boy. Good hungry boy.


7/4/18—My eardrums are ruptured and I have purchased a gun. Me and my dog shall know peace. Justice will serve, and the battle will rage. This big dog will fight when you rattle his cage. Thank you Toby. I finally understand. I am the fireworks now. I am America, and it is me. And America is exploding. Get off my property or I will shoot. I gaze up at President Cruz’s enormous face, made large on the television screen. Forty years it had taken me to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark wince. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two crisco tears trickled down the sides of my nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. I had won the victory over myself. I love Ted Cruz.


7/4/18—*Ed note—Our correspondant stopped writing on his computer, but continued to write illegibly on the wall of his home with barbecue sauce, any attempts to gain entry to his house were met with buckshot. Our hearts go out to the familes of Lane and Michael, two interns who have lost their lives attempting to acquire Mr. Tanzosh’s condiment work*




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s