Celebrating the Fourth of July with Muslim Footstools and Piccolo Petes

(Seriously, support our “coutry”. It’s a great “privilage”. Don’t be an asshole. Video supplied by “raatikainen22”.)

Perhaps in some countries they celebrate a holiday like the Fourth of July. Perhaps Mexicans have the Cinco de Mayo. And maybe the French have Bastille Day, sure. But there is no holiday like the Fourth of July. Very few holidays exist solely for the purpose of blowing shit up.

OK, sure, so the Fourth of July is technically supposed to be about celebrating America’s independence from the British. We had a damn good reason to get away from Britain. First, the British have dental problems. This is not funny because it is true.

Second of all, the British like to start massive wars and then blame them on their colonies. For example, say you’re trying to figure out why the hell Iraq is made up of various people that don’t interact with one another in any meaningful way except via hand grenade, or why Iranians hate everybody. These things can all be blamed on British people, and the Ottomans, who were Muslim footstools that took over the entire Middle East until 1921. For example, Iraq got settled by the British after World War I because the British thought that the Iraqis were dirty savages who couldn’t take control of their own affairs. This gave the British the right to take over their entire culture and ruin their lives by putting all kinds of different groups in the Middle East into one “nation-state” they referred to as “Iraq”, apparently because they felt that “Land of Savage Sand People” was too long to say in normal conversation. They did the same thing with Iran, excepting that instead of having a “mandate” to civilize Iranian culture, they just took all their oil and pissed them off. So, one could argue that the state of the Middle East is partially–if mostly–to blame on the British. But, of course, it is the Americans that did this, according to Britain anyway, because, like I already said, Britain blames everything on its former colonies. Hell, by tomorrow I’ll bet they’ll start blaming the lead paint in Chinese stuff on Hong Kong.

(Note: If you are British and believe that I am an unfunny idiotic douche who doesn’t know what he’s talking about, please send me hate mail at Luigirepublic@aol.com. I find it most entertaining.)

Anyway, so America had a damn good reason to leave Britain. Fledgling America, in an intense desire to “spread its wings” and “fly away” and “smack straight into the same old vat of shit Britain got itself into”, wanted to invade Iran and Iraq too. Just like old Mama Britain, except this time less racist and infinitely dumber.

The purpose of this post, however, is not to lambaste all the great things America has done for the world, writing pretentious anti-war messages as I go (such as NO LAND WARS IN ASIA YOU STUPID CONSERVATIVE HONKIES). This post is to talk about blowing shit up. Using explosives to fill the air with glowing embers and toxic chemicals is something America does best, as Iraq knows very well by now. And now I want to show you, as a typical white-trash American conservative, about how you, too, can blow shit up. And don’t worry: You don’t even need a gun permit to get fireworks. You can also leave your Klan uniform at home.

Step 1: Buy fireworks in huge boxes covered in American flags with names like “Freedom Fighter Explosives” and “Black Cat” and “FUCK IT LET’S KILL SOME NEIGHBORS.” These types of fireworks are generally bought by women at the supermarket so they can feel like good parents. They almost always include the following:

  • Cardboard tanks
  • Fountains with names like “Egyptian Bathing Princess”.
  • Fountains with names like “FREEDOM KILLERS”.
  • Sparklers, which can be used to set things on fire.
  • Little white bags filled with sand that nobody likes.
  • “Piccolo Petes”, which are obnoxiously loud but cause no major damage unless you use them properly.

Step 2: Buy bottle rockets, you big pussy. There is no better way to show off your retarded inner-American then by buying something that can be guaranteed to blow children’s fingers off or set your neighbor’s roof on fire. These are best accompanied by a handgun, which you fire off into the air like a moron so that all your neighbors know how much you care about our country. They can then call the authorities to express their gratitude.

Step 3: No All-American party is complete without at least three cases of liquor, steaks, ribs, other assorted meats, potato salad, and a big cake decorated to look like an American flag made out of cake. These are to ensure that by the time you get around to setting off your death candles, you’ll be drunk as a skunk and ready to celebrate your fat American ass off.

Step 4: Light your fireworks by putting your face right above them so if they malfunction you blow your face off. Almost every stupid person I’ve ever seen light a firework lights it via this time-tested method. I have no idea why. I always stand back a couple feet. To each his own.

Don’t forget to light a Black Cat next to your eardrum, so that you’ll lose your hearing for a week and cause permanent damage. Lighting a firecracker in your hand is a great way to blow your hands off. Don’t worry, you’ll probably make more off the lawsuit than you’d make actually using your hands anyway, considering how much of a moron you’d have to be to hold a lit firecracker.

(Also: Don’t worry if you accidentally grab a real black cat and light it on fire next to your ear. It will have the same effect, except that it will also claw your face off.)

Step 5: Shoot off the gun some more at twelve O’clock for no apparent reason. When the bullet comes down, you can be sure it won’t be your dumb ass that gets a slug of lead through his thick skull.

The rest of your extra-special Fourth of July should be obvious. For example, when little Billy gets bitten by a venomous snake or garden hose, you should take him to a hospital, while shooting your gun up into the air to call attention to law enforcement officials that you have driven your child to the hospital while drunk and wearing only your beer-stained undergarments. Extra points if the snake turns out to be the kind you get in the fireworks box that starts out as a little tablet and grows into this long ashy black thing. You will know it because the box it comes in will have ludicrous pictures of cobras on the outside with names like “FLASHING BLACK COBRA OF DEATH”.

That’s it for this year. I hope your Fourth of July can be as fun as you can make it while at Guantanamo Bay. Don’t keep Bubba waiting. He’s from Iran.

Master Chief’s Name Is Still “John”, And His Alien Friend Still Can’t Enjoy His Sandwich, But You Can Still Shoot Aliens with Railroad Ties in Halo 3

Halo has become a national pastime, on the same level as baseball, football, and complaining about gas prices, ever since its first release in 2001. It has become a huge cultural phenomenon, primarily because its principal character is named “John” but also because America felt sorry for those poor idiots who bought the first Xbox and had their hands fall off because of how big the controller was. We have now been through three of these games, and just three days ago I wound up playing Halo for the first time.

Halo is a game about rings, which sounds familiar, but neither of the two characters you can play as is a hedgehog. This is one of only a few problems I have with the game. Instead, you play as a character named “Master Chief”, a name he takes because again, his real name is John. John is not a masculine name. John is the name of your mother’s hairdresser. And whenever you’re up against enemies wielding guns that shoot giant railroad tie-sized spikes, you don’t want that. They’d just laugh at you. And then you’d have to kill them.

Master Chief is joined by an alien whose mouth is split at the bottom. I have no idea how he eats. This was the character I played as for most of the time I played this game. My cousin Josh played as Master Chief. This works out because, as I was informed by Josh, the alien is supposed to be the cool headed one, as I demonstrated by swearing as loudly as I could at the television screen throughout the game.

I saw very few rings. What I saw were lots of huge-ass aliens I was supposed to shoot at. I also saw a few “Warthogs”, some smaller vehicles, and a “Mammoth tank” that my cousin used to kill me several times in versus mode.

The first few levels were not difficult. For example, there was a base that got taken over by aliens, and Master Chief Johnny Josh and Myself the Alien Life-Form had to blow it up. Next, we took a tank out onto the mean streets of New Liberia Or Some Other African Nation and kill more aliens. I operated the turrent.

“FUCKING SHIT COCK-SUCKER FUCK YEAH KILL THAT FUCKING ALIEN BITCH-ASS HO FUCK YEAH” were my exact words as I attempted to kill aliens. I don’t really know why.

My mother comes in off the porch to yell at me for cursing while she was watching Denis Leary on PBS. Then we start killing aliens some more.

We stop for awhile to watch Jeff Dunham, a comedian with puppets, who is not funny. No ventriloquist is, unless the puppet in question happens to be a dead terrorist.

Next, more aliens.

The next level involved tanks and hitting at some sort of battle base; then we took on a giant spider, even larger than the type you see in Florida. We flew these flying things to a dropoff point, and killed some more aliens, as was the style at the time. Next, we landed on a giant ring. Sometime in all of this, we also killed an alien priest who wanted to infect the world with what appeared to be some kind of bowel disorder. The way it worked is, these little alien bug things would burst out of large fleshy sacs in the wall and start infecting you, and if you were dead, they would take over your body and make other soldiers want to kill themselves, probably because of the smell of rotting flesh combined with flatulence from the bowel disorder. I saw at least one soldier with a gun to his head mumbling some shit about the way his commander talked and how his skin was wriggling, so I hit him.

PROTIP: If someone you know and/or love is contemplating suicide, just slap them around for a few minutes. It’ll turn ’em around.

Using my personal favorite weapon, the Spiker, which was the one that shot huge spikes at people, Master Chief Joshie John-Boy and I infiltrated the biggest ring of all. We are talking a huge ring here, the kind that real men make whenever they don’t want to make a necklace. And it wasn’t even done, but it could apparently kill all life in the Universe including the bowel disorder aliens and the Covenant aliens and the humans. It was just that manly.

We go in, and the fucking obnoxious robot sphere thing that’s been talking to us throughout this bullshit starts shooting lasers at everybody, because firing the ring at this stage of its completion (second trimester) would surely destroy it and everybody on it. First, it kills the black guy, Johnson. Then it tries to kill the white guy, Master Chief. Then it tries to kill the alien (me). We kill it and it dies, and there was great celebration and cheering that finally the thing would shut up for a few minutes until Cortana, the digital little woman that Master Chief keeps in lieu of a real girlfriend (just like the guys that play Halo!) puts in the key that starts the giant ring. And suddenly we realize it’s time to go.

We run like hell for the nearest Warthog, which is still running perfectly in spite of the earthquakes and the aliens and the explosions, and we drive it like hell all the way to our ship.

Long story short, we both make it out of the ring before it explodes into flame but Master Chief’s part of the ship is split apart like the Titanic on Christmas Eve. He is forced to begin cryogenic sleep until Cortana needs him to clean the bathroom. Which is fine with Master Chief. Because Cortana talked as much as the damn robot sphere.

I, on the other hand, went back to Earth with the humans, and there are pretty pictures of mountains and a big barren place as a monument to all the soldiers who lost their lives in the big war against the aliens. Then the credits roll and Bungie Studios thanks us for helping them in their quest to conquer the world.

Hey, I couldn’t be happier to help. I have finally seen the world that is Halo, and it is OK. In spite of the fact that everybody died, the alien thing still can’t enjoy his sandwich because his mouth is split at the bottom and Master Chief’s real name is still John, I could see what was so cool about it, particularly in Versus mode, where you can finally kill all your friends like you’ve wanted to ever since they forced you to strip naked and run all the way to the 7-11 on Christmas Eve to buy liquor so they can try to light their breath on fire like a dragon. The rest of the game was pretty good too, although I’d say there’s still not enough alien killing. But if you can make it for the Nintendo Wii, Microsoft, I’d buy it. Assuming, naturally, I get tired of Super Smash Brothers.