By Karen T Parrot
Well, I’m still fanning myself, girls—not from the heat, but from the sheer mortification that took place this Memorial Day. What was supposed to be a solemn, celebratory, reverent moment turned into a hymnal horror and a hot dog disaster that I pray isn’t a sign from above about June 16th. Because if this is how things are going to go, someone better start praying harder—and I mean on their knees with full eye contact to Heaven.
Let’s start with the choir. Oh, the choir. Our very own feathered vocalists were tasked with performing “God Bless America’s Biscuits”—a sacred staple at any patriotic brunch, and quite frankly, a spiritual experience when sung correctly.
But oh no. No, no, no.
I. Could. Not. Breathe.
My clutch pearls nearly snapped off my neck. I looked around expecting someone to stop the madness, but the crowd just kept clapping! Is there no musical integrity left in this nest? Is nothing sacred? I mean, it’s one thing to get the words wrong, it’s another to imply inappropriate affection toward a side dish.
To make matters worse, just as I was recovering from that lyrical crime, the air filled with what can only be described as the Smell of 1776 Hot Dogs.
Let me tell you, it was less “Fourth of July” and more “questionable tailgate in a parking lot behind a gas station.”
I don’t know where they found these hot dogs—possibly a time capsule—but whatever patriotism they were going for was lost in the smell of artificial smoke and mystery meat.
Worse than the Egg Roll Easter Crash of ’24. You remember it. You still smell it. I had war flashbacks and three dry heaves by the condiments table.
Now to Anne. And bless her chilly little heart—she kept her distance. Maybe it was shame. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe she finally realized she shouldn’t be near an open flame with that attitude. Whatever the reason, her absence was noted and appreciated.
I do worry, though. Not about Anne—she’ll always be exactly as underwhelming as advertised—but about June 16th.
Flag Day. OJP’s 80th. Our Bigly Parade.
Because if Memorial Day is the rehearsal dinner, then June 16th is the wedding. And if this parade of mishaps is an omen… well… I’m not superstitious, but I am highly alert and deeply invested in aesthetics.
So I’m issuing a polite but firm warning:
Let’s get it together, people.
No more lyrical freelancing.
No more ancient meat products.
And no more kissing the biscuits, metaphorically or otherwise.
Because on June 16th, I expect nothing less than divine perfection wrapped in a red, white, and blue ribbon.
#SunKissedNotSloppy #MemorialMayhem #KarenWasThere #ThisBetterNotHappenAgain #June16OrBust