Happy Birthday, America

I can tell it's the Fourth without looking at the calendar. The smell of bbq traipsing over summer green lawns. Plywood bunkers selling Roman Candles in a dusty field. And of course, hot dog buns on display in the Safeway parking lot.

To be honest, I really like America's birthday. Sure, I'm not David McCullough, and I don't even like going on picnics. But, I celebrate the Fourth the only way I know how: I sit at home and eat popsicles watching Seinfeld reruns...not as a British subject.

But of course, some fool had to go and mess it up. A man grilling on his back patio set off the sprinkler system in my building. The annoyingly loud, putting-fireworks-to-shame siren blared in my building for 2 hours. I was forced to eat my Big Stick on a park bench.

I'm not a manly bbq chef like Bobby Flay, but at least I understand my shortcoming. I don't douse my charcoal in lighter fluid, and I certainly don't ruin my neighbors holiday weekend by forcing them out of their homes.

Watching my neighbors evacuate the building, I counted 38 people. That's 38 people's prime relaxation hours destroyed by one man's bbq ego. Making matters worse, the unapologetic buffoon came outside in a tacky red, white, and blue apron.

I love the Fourth, but American flags are not pants. The date on the calendar doesn't automatically make people good outdoor cooks. And mylar balloons are not meant to be eagle-shaped. Come on people; let's give America a tasteful birthday without fire-related accidents.