An overwhelming majority of Americans, polls show, support the substitution of gross political pandering over the medical judgment of committed professionals made in consultation with a woman having a difficult pregnancy.
“What we’re talking about is a cracked-out, machete-wielding moron who went on his own personal countywide crime spree.” — Schwartz on the one man crime wave that police dealt with on 6/13.
And with the 4th of July approaching and the crackheads who live near me already setting off fireworks every night, I’m reminded of the story that made me realize I loved Erin:
I’ve never been a big fan of the Fourth of July. It’s not that I’m not patriotic or that I don’t love my country or anything. It’s more that, for the majority of my childhood and teen years, I was pretty much forced to attend the Annual Kiwanis Pancake Breakfast and the Lake Bluff Independence Day Parade as part of a grand patriotic scheme dreamed up by an overly-emotional father whose wayward patriotism was most clearly illustrated by the fact that he voted for Kennedy because he was an IRISH CATHOLIC. As a result, the Fourth of July is just another day for me. For the rest of Chicago, it seems to be just another day to get drunk and set things on fire.
Now, I’m all for getting drunk and setting things on fire; it used to be one of my favorite modes of entertainment (sorry about your barcalounger, Benny – I thought the flame on that shot of tequila would TOTALLY go out before it hit the chair – call me!). Yeah, so. That was fun. BACK WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN. But, like, whatever. I had a feeling that when Lena invited me to Melly and D’s Fourth of July party, alcohol and fire would be in steady supply, so I was prepared to suck it up and deal.
I was NOT prepared for Dewey and his Merry Band of Blithering Buttlicks.