Independence Day, and other questionable Will Smith ventures

Just teasing Will.

Independence Day is just around the corner. Like the man once said, July 4th is the day we celebrate our country’s independence by blowing up a small part of it.

I’ve never understood fireworks. Much like women, they are beautiful to look at, but when they blow up in your face your eyebrows are never going to grow back in the same again.

July 4th makes me think of grilling out, running with sparklers, and the incredible body odor our forefathers put up with to craft and sign the Declaration of Independence. I remember one particularly memorable July 4th many years ago at my uncle’s house on Lake Marion in Eutawville (pronounced u-TAH-vul), South Carolina. My cousin, Dave, who features in many of the least flattering stories from my childhood, was there, as was my immediate family and the better part of the staff of my uncle’s office. I remember this because a particularly large member of his office staff had a little too much to drink and fell into the bottom of a boat later in the day, losing her top and permanently scarring Dave in the process. I don’t think I was there for this - if I was, my brain has seared the image from my conscious memory as a form of self-defense.

To set the scene a little, the lake house was a nice, little single story building (built on stilts in beach house fashion) on a fairly large waterfront lot off of an unpaved road. Eutawville is dirt poor country, but there are a number of beautiful places there, particularly on the waterfront, and I frankly thought this lake house was one of the greatest places in the world. The lot was waterfront on two sides - the canal, which was shallow but could be used to access the big water, and a stumpy tree lined cove. No dock on the property, but the lot next door had one they were kindly willing to share. The house was set back about 100 yards or so from either water front, and a separate garage sat near the canal and served as a combination boat house/billiard room. Like I said, great place to visit growing up.

Early in the day, most of the crowd was hanging out near the canal eating, drinking, sunbathing, and chatting. Dave and I were up to our usual shenanigans, which typically involved jokes only we understood and consuming obscene volumes of Dr. Pepper (or, for ease of typing, DP). A case of DP a night between the two of us was not unheard of, though admittedly the time Dave went for his second can from a new 12-pack and found the box empty was not my proudest moment. DP is absurdity fuel for any adolescent male. It’s sort of like alcohol in that it becomes the excuse for anything stupid you do. I could tell you stories, but you’d probably look at me like I was out of my mind. You would not be far off. On DP, I sort of was. Also, it makes you burp like an absolute champion. I love DP like Harry Dresden loves Coke.

Anyhoo, we’d both put back a few DPs that day (it was five o’clock somewhere), and I went up to the house to get another, sporting my rather unfashionable, mid-nineties swim trunks. That detail doesn’t really add to the story, but I like to focus on the fact that I was never cool. Ever. I got a can from the fridge and guzzled half of it as I walked back out of house and onto the porch. Suddenly, every ounce of carbonation I had consumed that day began a chemical reaction with whatever faux-meat was stuffed into the breakfast hot pockets Dave and I had choked down that morning for breakfast. There were fireworks going on in my belly, and not the kind they write about in books like “Thong on Fire” (real title, honestly). I stood, staring out at the people a football field away laughing and chatting it up, feeling deeply concerned about what was about to happen.

Then, I belched the loudest belch I’ve ever belched.

When I say this thing rattled the windows, I am not exaggerating. It was cartoon-esque. If you’ve ever seen an episode of the Simpsons where Homer or Barney have a beer belch that makes their lips flap in the gastro-intestinal wind, you can sort of picture what I looked like at that moment. I think I momentarily levitated off the ground from the force of it.

The sound wave ripped across the space between me and the rest of the party-goers, and somehow cancelled out all other sound. Literally, everyone there fell silent. As one, like something out of Children of the Corn, they turned and stared. There was a pause. I did the only thing I could think to do.

I took a bow.

Dave fell over laughing. My mother buried her face in her hands (she really did try to raise me right). The rest of the crowd went back to what they were doing slowly and uncertainly. That was, at the time, one of my proudest moments. And what a way to say “Happy Birthday” to our country.

So when you think of July 4th, think back to that more innocent time, and one man belching for all the world to... wait. You know what? I think that was actually Labor Day. Nevermind.

Happy July 4th anyway.