Take it from Snee: Not every day can be Flag Day

I was a little worried yesterday. I thought for sure that, since Schools’ column was yesterday, that he’d beat me to the punch writing about the world’s greatest holiday: Flag Day. Fortunately, I awoke very late and hungover to find an Eat My Sports that focused solely on that baskety-ball thing all the Jameses are playing these days.

Some people really get into Christmas. Others spend their parole reoffending on Halloween. I, however, am all about Flag Day. Not half-mast, but full-on Union Jacked! (I am aware that Flag Day is about the U.S. flag, but c’mon. All flags are welcome at my Flag Day table.)

But, not many people realize that Flag Day is actually two holidays. Everyone forgets (1) Jesus’ birthday because (2) Santa’s lithium wears off the night of December 24 and he goes all manic-depressive on good and bad kids. Well, the same thing happens on June 14th, only everyone forgets that it’s also the U.S. Army’s birthday.

Not on my watch.

Every year, I pick a different fictional soldier to honor on the U.S. Army’s birthday. This year’s honoree was that guy on “I Dream of Jeannie” who was always hanging around for Major Nelson’s sloppy seconds.

With the “reason for the season” observed, I left my shoebox shrine to Major Healey next to the remote caddy and starting drinking under the flag pole. This was actually my Festivus pole, which I leave up all year and redecorate based on the season. (Last month, it was a maypole.)

You’re probably wondering if there are Flag Day drinks. There are, and I prefer the “Red, White and Blue Motorcycle,” which is a bucket full of equal parts red wine, white wine and “Blue Motorcycle.” If it makes a French person cry, then it’s a successful Flag Day drink.

Things get a little hazy here, but according to my neighbors, I either:

1. Break into their home, forcefully asking where their flag is, reiterating over and over again, “DONTCHA KNOW IT’S FLAG DAY?!” This continues until the police arrive, I jump through a window or I leave through the door but only because I thought my flag might be dangerously unguarded.

2. Wave the portable version of my flag in the streets arguing with my arresting officer that I don’t need a parade permit if it’s for “FREEDOMS AND LIBERTINES.”

3. Hold a staring contest with the neighbor’s dog, which quickly degenerates into a pooping contest on the lawn. (Since I’ve been drinking all day, I lose for consistency, but win for circumference of pile.)

I do know that at this point I wake up either in jail, my yard or in front of my neighbor’s basement door with them all trapped inside. It is June 15 and another Flag Day has come and went. I take down my flag and redecorate the Festivus pole as a stripper pole, which is how it will remain until next Festivus. I bury my shoebox shrine in the backyard and mail the flag to the local rock radio station. They’ve filed twelve cease-and-desist orders against me—11 for Flag Day-related activities—but they can’t keep me from listening.

Why? Because of FREEDOMS. (I don’t know how radios work.)