Boom boom

Firecracker, firecracker, boom, boom, boom.
The muscle man with the small bulge in his sweatpants, drinking his Blue Moon with an orange slice at the Chinese bar where he orders chicken wings, attaches a firecracker around his Johnson and sets it ablaze to make it go boom, boom, boom.
He does a little shimmy for the camera on his buddy’s phone and the nationalistic fire goes wild. Oh, the pop, pop, bing, bing, bing, sound of boys with ‘roid rage running the country.
Their girlfriends cheer, “We’re hot, you’re not, Unlimited, Unlimited,” and no one bats an eyelash except for young quiet patriots in the stands who laugh their asses off thinking of ways to swaddle the babies in red, white, and blue.

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