God Bless America.

Sunday night was interesting.

A peripheral friend invited me to his home for the Fourth and, short on plans and sausages, I agreed to attend for thirty or forty minutes.

Things were uneventful at first—a little chatter about single-malt Scotch followed by a game of badminton. You know, real patriotic stuff.

I played along but was a bit peeved by the lack of organization. Where were the miniature flags? Where was the singing of God Bless America? And why was there no Corn Hole?

Something you should know is that the host is renowned in these parts for his record collection and assortment of nautical turtlenecks. Imagine Captain Ahab clutching a latte and leafing through Graham Parsons albums on Hawthorne…that is my friend.

I tell you this because, upon realizing his party was sinking like the Pequod, my friend did what any hipster sailor would do—he pulled out a box of fireworks, dusted off a pint of whiskey and set about torching the neighborhood.

Many of the partygoers were dumbfounded. But I’ve grown accustomed to my friend’s desperate, whiskey-fueled tantrums so I gathered a few sparklers and tried to celebrate the way our founding fathers once did—with joy, cheer and merriment.

This did not last long however. Having depleted his stock of fireworks and good will, my friend snapped the sparklers from my hand and waved them wildly before my face; through the haze I could see him smirking and chortling like a drunken English sailor. It made my blood boil.

Badly burned and without sight I summoned my inner patriot, grabbed hold of my friend’s turtleneck and dropped him on the hard concrete, holding tight to his hipster boot as he tried to slither away.

What followed was captured on film but disposed of immediately. Let’s just say that peace and order were restored. And that King Matt learned an important lesson—to never ever tread on an American.