Thanks to Luke Healey for
this blast from the past picture.
Today is the prime picnic day of the year, and likely you are rushing around with a cold, baked chicken, maybe some nice salads, a football, a softball bat and maybe even horseshoes. But likely you don’t have lawn darts. Remember when America was just a little more free and we could play lawn darts until the cows came home or else someone was rushed to the emergency room, gushing blood from somewhere? Ah, those were the days, and that’s what Independence Day means to me.
My grandfather had Jarts in his basement and I remember playing with them with my brother and our cousins when I was about ten years old. Throwing them at targets quickly grew old so we tried to see how close we could get to hitting each other, then it turned into playing chicken and eventually became a test of bravery to see who would run first when the darts were thrown straight into the air.
Boy, those were the good old days, all right. Nowadays Jarts are outlawed, but likely made in basements and available if you know the right people, like Absinthe or crystal meth. You can thank dumbass kids like my brother and me for ruining the fun for everyone.
Although we never had an injury in our Jart play, I am sure it was simply because we all lived too far away from each other to do this sort of thing very often. In other words, I have strained relationships and the breakdown of family values to thank for my survival thus far, at least when it comes to not being buried with Jarts in my skull.
So remember this little moral tale as you have picnics today. Don’t be too friendly with anyone, and if you have lawn darts, be sure to have lots of beer. Alcohol breaks down the moral fiber of our families and, as explained earlier, that keeps people from getting killed by lawn darts.
After all, Dubya has them at his cookouts. And if we are too afraid to play lawn darts, the terrorists have already won.
This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs
