Here we are once again. It's the 4th of July, and it's time to celebrate! Celebrate what, exactly, I haven't the foggiest idea. What's to celebrate? Especially this year? I'm sure I don't need to remind you, Dear Imaginary Reader, that everything kinda sorta sucks right now. So maybe "celebrate" isn't the right word to use today. Distract, maybe? Is that more apt for this not-so-festive occasion? I think so. It feels more natural to me, at any rate.
So it's the 4th of July, and it's time to distract ourselves for a little while from the existential, all-encompassing nightmare our everyday lives have become with hot barbecues, cold brewskis, and some good old-fashioned fireworks! Because there is really no greater distraction to our simple animal brains than a flash of colorful light accompanied by a loud noise. And as I see news stories of folks flouting all known medical science to gather in very large, very sweaty groups on this most holy of days to get drunk, gorge themselves on grilled meats and stare at barely controlled explosions for several hours in the summer heat, I am filled with a sense of dread that causes me to mourn for the future of this planet. Too many willfully ignorant people are out in force, raising their shrill voices to a fever pitch, telling anybody within earshot that they ain't gonna let no virus take away their freedom to be as dumb as they want to be. It's in the fuckin' Constitution, jerk! Life, liberty, and fuck you, snowflake!
Who cares if this plague is raging out of control all across the country and hospitals are already being overwhelmed with an influx of patients in need of urgent care, and that thanks to a coterie of irresponsible people in government pushing for the economy to open too soon, over two months of lock downs and quarantines have been a complete waste of time and resources since the fucking virus didn't go anywhere. Fuck all that noise. We just wanna party. So go ahead. Have your party. Don't wear a mask. Continue to spread this disease because you have no empathy and the self-control of a spoiled toddler.
Our brain-damaged president this morning held a mask-free rally in the shadow of Mt. Rushmore, and basically told his constituency that this virus isn't going anywhere, and that hundreds of thousands of preventable deaths and a plague that is burning through our population almost entirely unchecked is just the price of doing business in the good old U.S. of A. Party 'til you drop, folks. Then, if you're lucky, get back up and die for your economy. Distract yourselves with a night of distraction and frivolity, and pray to whatever god you believe in that you don't get sick. Because in this country, you're on your own. That worthless platitude "In God We Trust" should be removed from our currency and replaced with the phrase "Fuck You, Got Mine". Distract yourselves tonight, America, because there's nothing worth celebrating today.
Well, maybe not nothing, since I've got two fresh episodes of Trappo's Chap House here, featuring your hosts [name redacted] and Ky, for your listening pleasure!
If you're looking for a distraction that doesn't involve the possibility of grievous self-injury, then sit back and listen to The Porn King Of Wichita, which chronicles a night in our misspent youth involving a chance encounter with our late friend Titus behind the counter of a local porn shop behind the house where our late grandmother used to live. I also ramble a bit about my ongoing medical woes, and then I recommend Ky watch the masterpiece comedy series Toast Of London on Netflix, which he still has not done, because Ky doesn't really give a damn about anything I recommend. It's just all in one ear and out the other with that guy.
If you still haven't had enough, then Sunshine Sento Dustin is mostly myself telling Ky about the therapeutic power of two similar series about average Japanese dudes who love eating stuff, Sunshine Sento Sake and Samurai Gourmet, both created by Yoshihiro Taguchi, that helped get me through the most painful and miserable days of recovery from two major surgeries last year. It's... not the most exciting episode we've ever recorded, but it is an episode we've recorded, and now it's posted below for you to ignore at your leisure!
Chapter 13: The Porn King Of Wichita
Chapter 14: Sunshine Sento Dustin
That's it for now, friends. Things just keep getting worse, and there's no end in sight. So enjoy the day. Eat, drink, and be merry. For tomorrow... well, you know the rest.
I will leave you with this fun fact: Eric Trump isn't really named Eric. His birth name is Mark, but when the boy turned 10, his insane father arbitrarily decided that he didn't like the name Mark anymore, and told his own son that his new name was Eric, and that's just a true thing that you now know. And knowing is half the battle. The other half is, ya know, actual battle.
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