Happy Fourth of July if you are a conservative Republican and celebrating 250 years of the United States.
My condolences if you are a left-wing Democrat hanging black crepe paper and apologizing for the greatness of this land.
Republicans tend to be happy and well adjusted psychologically. Democrats tend to be unhappy and suffer from mental problems.
Don’t take my word for it, look it up for yourself. The phenomenon is well-documented within the scientific community.
Do you really think those radical protesters with their dyed hair and pierced noses, often carrying an extra one hundred or so pounds of body weight, are happy?
I am reminded that beauty is only skin deep, but ugly is to the bone.
Last night, I was able to secure one of the flood of free tickets for a Johnstown Mill Rats game, endured sweltering heat and seven innings, about two and one-half hours, of bad baseball, in anticipation of a fireworks display.
The fireworks, long an American tradition even though they were invented many centuries back in China, provided 20 minutes or so of solid entertainment.
I awoke fashionably late today to find the wife getting ready to watch the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating contest from New York City. Joey Chestnut won, again. Some things one still can count upon.
Alas, Serena Williams’ fat shots helped her lose weight rapidly and get an invite to Wimbledon, just because she’s Serena Williams, but they couldn’t make her win.
Serena got thumped earlier this week in singles competition by someone named Maya Joint, which sounds like either a Central American-themed bar, or a brand of cannabis. Maya is typical of her time, someone born in America opting to play for another nation, in this case Australia.
The ongoing World Cup is full of such sights, like the black goalie born in Newark, N.J., who played for Japan, or the Switzerland team fielding a starting 11 with seven black players, many from Cameroon.
It is easy to blur the usual standards when it comes to international sports. Beating Father Time is another matter.
Serena is 44 years old. In her prime, she was built like an inside linebacker for the Steelers, but still won.
In her mid-40s, one singles match rendered her hors de combat and forced her to pull out of a doubles date with her sister Venus.
Becoming old for an athlete means, to quote former Steelers coach Chuck Noll, getting on with your life’s work.
Speaking of those attempting to defy aging, consider songstress Taylor Swift, who is 36 pushing 37 years of age. In my youth, she would have been described as a spinster or old maid.
But yesterday, while New York residents were commanded to turn down thermostats or dispense entirely with air-conditioning, Swift was married in Madison Square Garden, where I suspect the audience was kept cool by air-conditioning running hard and long.
Swift is a billionaire, but I don’t hear the leftists whining about her wealth, built on a series of redundant songs about being done wrong by guys. She is to pop music what the Hallmark Channel is to formulaic rom-com Christmas shows.
As an aside, yesterday my wife continued a tradition of taking home-baked cookies to a neighbor who today celebrates her 101st birthday. Think of it, this woman has been alive for more than 40 percent of our nation’s existence, and was born on the Fourth of July, to boot.
God bless her, and God bless our great nation.
Sam Ross Jr's site 