Parades: American tradition, or catalyst for brain rot? Maybe both. I’ve been to more than one parade, each time telling myself, “maybe this time I’ll get why everybody else flocks to these mundane monstrosities.” I’m left scratching my sun burned, sweaty, scalp at the conclusion of each of these parades feeling the shame, regret, physical discomfort, and mental anguish one must go through the morning after a drunken affair with Bobbi, the she-male.
I managed to watch 15 minutes of the Pioneer Day Parade this morning as I slurped down some unsweetened oatmeal, the former of which managed to be more bland than the latter. Too lazy to reach for the remote, I clued in to the commentary in time to hear the silly man declare one of the floats to be a “feast for the eyes.” Intrigued, I looked up from my bowl of slop to see a pioneer woman waving at the crowd beneath a gigantic, wobbling cow piñata. “Last straw,” I thought to myself as I reached for the remote: click Parade click Parade click Parade click Parade. What gives?
Am I alone here? Is it taboo to flip off floats? I need answers.