We’re not really a fourth of July kind of family. Not a one of us cares for jello molds or bean dips–two of the things I highly associate with the holiday–and since Illinois put The Ban On Fun when the outlawed pretty much every single firework, even Sparklers are forbidden. SPARKLERS.
Yeah. I know. We impeach our crooked governors, run a toll road system I cannot understand to save myself, and outlaw fucking Sparklers.
(we were left, I should tell you, with those things you throw at the ground that make a satisfying ‘POP!’ Yeah. Pathetic, I know)
Sure, we’re close enough to Wisconsin that should we care to, we could easily pop up over the border for some contraband fireworks and a visit to the Best Thing In Wisconsin (besides House on the Rock and the jaunty “You Are Now Leaving Wisconsin” sign you see when you’re whizzing back into Illinois)
(Wisconsin and Illinois have a long standing feud, for those who wonder why I’m picking on an entire state. Wisconsinites hate we FIB’s–fucking Illinois Bastards–for driving too quickly and habitually wearing pants. Where we Illinoisans hate Wisconsinites for their love of both the Packers and The Brewers, both of which are seen as inferior to the Bears and the Cubs–or Sox–respectively).
The single Best Thing In Wisconsin besides leaving it is this:
That’s right, The Mars Cheese Castle. If you’re ever in the area, I suggest, nay INSIST that you stop by. It’s truly a place above the rest. For instance, while there, I noted a nice block of cheddar cheese, encased in wax and made to look like a can of Bud Light. It brings a tear to my eye when I think about it.
But this weekend, because we don’t want to be Annexed to Cuba or wherever it is they banish people these days (Wisconsin? I kid, I kid. I couldn’t resist. And besides the gentle ribbing, I do actually like Wisconsin. Half the plaques affixed to Dave’s arteries are thanks in no small part to the sausages and the cheese and the butter farmed right there. So it’s a part of the man I promised to love, honor and repay, that wily state), we’re hosting a party. A SAUSAGE party featuring a multitude of delicious encased meats.
Dave is taking the eldest sausage and heading out to buy as many encased meats as he can fit his grubby hands around. Hot dogs, brats, cheese brats, meat sticks, wee breakfast sausages, bacon, and (likely) cheese. It shall be a feast in which I pass out fistfuls of Lipitor with the buns and ketchup.
Since his (grumble, grumble, grouse) father has not called or picked him up in three weeks–lest you feel sorry for Ben, he’s pleased as punch by this, as are we–Ben will be there and likely covered in ketchup.
Alex will happily fling cupfuls of water at our guest while somehow managing to simultaneously bean them in the head with any number of large balls. All of which he calls “purple” as I think he is as color blind as I am.
Amelia will show off that she is no longer the embryo I’d thought she was by rolling around on the floor. She doubles as a lint brush! I’m sure our guests may choose to borrow her to remove the copious amounts of cat hair from their clothes.
(when did she get so old?)
Amelia may also voice her displeasure of learning precisely what being a member of our family involves. She is, no doubt, at the tender age of 5 months, plotting her escape to find her Real Family, as she, like me, was no doubt switched at birth.
(Also: I scream just as loudly when Dave gets into MY face)
Happy Third of July, Internet! If you’re local and care to join us for an encased meats extravaganza, drop me a line.