a gun isn't a weapon, it's a tool for keeping the King of England out of your face!

Our Anniversary of Telling King George Where He Can Shove It was pretty low-key, because we were busy refinishing the office floor, so we can turn it into Pinga's bedroom. It's such a beautiful room with huge windows that it seems a pity to have it be the Shame Hiding Hole. No, far better to have the shame hole out where everyone can see it all the time! And then we can have the computer in a public place and keep better tabs on how well our children are doing at stealing identities and hacking into the CIA's database.

Friday night we hit the tail end of a cookout at John's parents' with the most amazing salmon ever that I made a disgusting pig of myself about. Then we watched the LAMEST fireworks show I've ever seen outside of my own driveway. Boo, Fireworks West! How is it that Neil Diamond isn't good enough to get his whole song played, but redneck after redneck after redneck got to wax on about how this country is just real nice? I'm still mad about it. No Tchaikovsky, no Copeland? WHO IS RUNNING THIS PLACE? Saturday morning we got together at Kelly's house and had a scrumptious breakfast with fruit, two pork products, and THREE kinds of fried batter. To make sure we were celebrating America we made enough food to send us all into a diabetic coma. Woo!

Here are the pictures from the Hyrum parade, at which John saw a 2-year-old baby get clocked by a thrown punch bottle from Ridley's Market. Sweet!