Oh Boy, it’s America’s Independence Day. Rock on.

One cool thing about dating M. is that it kind of reminds you of the desirabillity of lliving in the land of the free, home of the brave. One bad thing about the shitstorm at work is that it makes you forget you are allowed such things as freedom.

Just to remember, here’s a little tidbit from the “Declaration of Independence”

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

Then you got your First Amendment of the Constitution

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

And to top the freedom sundae off with a cherry (not from the tree the original George W. chopped down), here’s what the Commonwealth of Massachusetts’ Constitution gives you

The end of the institution, maintenance, and administration of government, is to secure the existence of the body politic, to protect it, and to furnish the individuals who compose it with the power of enjoying in safety and tranquillity their natural rights, and the blessings of life: and whenever these great objects are not obtained, the people have a right to alter the government, and to take measures necessary for their safety, prosperity and happiness.

So, I get that this language and rights and all have to do with the government not the workplace. Fucking Ya, I am surely glad that I haven’t been slapped in jail for the shit I’ve written here. Very glad, indeed.

But, you know, the language is also the spirit of the place, the reason we’re all going to be “ooohhh”ing and “aahhh”ing over fireworks tonight. And, in the case of Bostonians, swelling with pride to the strains of the “1812 Overture” (although, of course, the Russkies beating Napoleon has nothing to do with nothing). Anywho, what I’m talking about is gestalt here. It’s what we do, it’s how we think. It’s the zeitgeist of the folks here in the U.Fucking S. of A. (I guess, you could argue that was the zeitgeist that was, however. What with the “Patriot Act” and all the current spirit is probably more like “watch what you say.” I’m needing to believe we can turn that fucking ship around and get back to a little thing known as liberty once Bush is KO’ed in November.)

The hysteria, then, of the chick who turned me in as a threat of workplace violence, is quintessentially unamerican. She’s no patriot, she’s an idiot. Wonder where she’ll be watching the fireworks and smiling about her liberties?

(I was going to write an elaborate visual of imagining her in the old fashion stocks in the middle of the Colonial village square, blah blah. But, on second thought, I realized that that might be misconstrued as a “threat” or “a lapse in judgement” on my part, because, you know, I have no right to criticize others and hurt feelings and SCARE them. You know, the FEAR of my getting a few two-by-fours together and hammering out some stocks to jam her head and hands through.)

By the way, you might have noticed that I referred to a “chick” from work. After speaking with family, friends, a couple of lawyers and the work-required psychologist, now more than ever I feel like someone with a pretty honkingly huge ax to grind started this little adventure. Either that or my employer is getting way too fucking creative in letting folks go.

My aunt and I were talking about who might have been so frightened by my prose as to run to HR and warn them. We concluded it has to be a chick. Sad to say to both our feminist hearts, we just can’t imagine a guy going there. “Oh, Ms. HR, I’m frightened, someone wrote about a knife and, I don’t know, maybe she has one. I’m a-scared. Maker her stop.” Just not the masculine style.

My aunt also figures it’s someone closer to being her contemporary than mine. From her point of view, a young’un (OK, unlike me), but like the 20-somethings I have bitched about here, would have been raised on a diet of MTV, Howard Stern, Opie and Anthony, Fear Factor and whatever else you want to throw into the shock soup. So, if nothing else, they could spot bullshit when they saw it, and would know right away that what you got here is 100% pure, unadulterated crap. Nothing to see here and nothing to worry about.

A middle-aged chick with no sense of humor, then, is trodding through the halls of my employer. Content, that Ms. FancyPants Dee-Rob is shutting the fuck up and getting her comeuppance. Rock on, you happy worker camper drone you, it’s 4th of July, celebrate the liberty of being able to completely and utterly fuck with the livelihood and reputation of someone you’ve met. (Because let’s remember, you didn’t report that I should shut up and stop being annoying, you reported I was DANGEROUS and needed the psychological help. Nice fucking touch, I doft my cap to your ingenuity.)

Now, let’s all watch something get blowed up for both our freedoms to be as assholic as we want to be.