What you say: “Bev, are you going to the parade?”

What I hear: “Bev, are you going to go sit in the sweltering-ass sun to sweat your balls off, get weird tan lines, and watch horses shit in the street? There will also be the occasional siren to set off your startle reflex, but it’s OK because when you piss your pants, it’ll just blend in with your ass sweat.¹ Oh, and maybe a small child will come dangerously close to being run over by a tractor ten feet away from you!”

So, no. I’m not going to the parade you sick bastards.

I’ll be there for the buffet after though.

Cheers to America and all that though.

-Bev

¹This ain’t InDEPENDence Day, man.