Independence Day

I was stopped at an intersection, stranded in my Trooper, stuck
three cars behind a guy driving a luxurious souped-up black
pickup truck trimmed with chrome, towing an oversized cabin cruiser,
trying to negotiate the sharp right turn off  the narrow
side street into the marina, attempting to avoid hitting a parked
car, a tree, a stop sign, a fire hydrant and the entrance fence,
all at the break neck speed of two miles an hour. 
I sat, waited, watched and  laughed as the truck and trailer
pulled up, backed up, pulled up, backed up, twisted, turned
and contorted, making slow progress one inch at a time.
I just wanted to get home and get ready to celebrate the day
with my friends and family, spend the day at the beach, have
a barbecue and see the fireworks at night.
Welcome to the Jungle came on the radio, I smiled and instinctively
turned up the volume. 
Maybe a hair too much.
“Turn off that God Damn un-American crap!
It’s the Fourth of July, you should be listening to some good old down
home American music.” 
That complaint came from two good old boys sitting on the porch
of the corner house. 
Both were dressed in tee-shirts and shorts, that barely covered their big bellies. 
One had uncombed hair and an unkempt scraggly beard, while his partner
sported an NRA baseball cap and the unshaven shadow of two day gray stubble. 
They both were swigging bottles of beer, their beverage of choice
at ten o’clock on the holiday morning. 
What caught my attention was the flag that flew from the pole outside the house. 
It wasn't the Stars and Stripes, but the Stars
and Bars of the Confederate battle flag.
Questions flooded my mind.
Had Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum failed and the aliens won?
Didn’t they know Guns and Roses hailed from LA?
And I was pretty sure California hadn’t been ceded back to Mexico, yet.
The intersection cleared, so I just smiled, waved and all I could  say was, 
  “Happy Birthday, USA!”