OPINION: My 4th of July Experience with My Liberal Nephews

How to shut them up and put them in their place

REAL AMERICA—Good tidings, fellow Patriots!

Hope you’re all appropriately hungover and/or hospitalized after celebrating America’s birthday. Two-hundred-and-forty-seven years! (Almost as old as Sleepy Joe Brandon, “supplanter in grief” of our magnificent Country.)

The Founding Fathers would be so proud of their Resilient Broad. Sultry and strong in equal measure. Embrace her and she’ll blow your mind; reject her and she’ll break your bones. British invasion, Civil War, a Great Depression, two World Wars, hippies, the Obama administration. America has survived them all.

Speaking of survival, I just spent the Fourth of July weekend with my insufferable liberal nephews. Despite enjoying the exceptional privilege of an American birthright, these craven woketards hate their own country more than any ChiCom or Islamic terrorist ever could. Indeed, their disdain for American freedom can only be matched by a Pulitzer Prize-winning New York Times journalist like Nikole Hannah-Jones.

Try as they might to ruin our family’s celebratory rampage and disparage the Greatest Country on God’s Green Earth, my nephews did not account for my unwavering determination to humiliate them in public and eviscerate their braindead liberal propaganda with the precision of an R9X Hellfire missile. Survived is understatement. I f—ing thrived.

I’m sharing my story in case it is of any use to the millions of Real Americans out there plagued by obnoxious left-wing relatives determined to turn every family gathering into an Ivy League “struggle session” or incoherent lecture about the “people on TikTok” who make a “compelling argument” for why “transphobia is worse than the Holocaust.”

Make no mistake. It’s our Patriotic Duty to shut them up and put them in their place. Thanksgiving is only four months away.

Brayden, 29

Rolled up to the cookout wearing a Brittney Griner “Team USA” jersey. I inquired as to whether he always played basketball in a dress, or if the women’s medium was simply too large for his undernourished coatrack of a body. He countered that the WNBA has the fastest growing fan base in the United States and unfolded a printout of a Forbes.com article purporting to justify his claim.

I thanked him for the piece of paper and used it to wipe the sweat between my ass cheeks. That’s when I noticed the blue-and-yellow anklet he wore to show his support for the Ukrainian war effort. I attempted to bond with him by sharing my childhood dream of killing Russians, but toward the end of the night I found the stupid anklet on the ground surrounded by a bunch of half-smoked nicotine-free cigarettes.

Albus, 23

Couldn’t remember if I’d seen the kid since his 21st birthday, so I jokingly offered him a Bud Light. He launched into a lecture about the lack of corporate support for “Dylan” Mulvaney, the trans influencer who tarnished the brand. I zoned out for the whole thing, but when he was done I brought up the Supreme Court’s decision to strike down affirmative action. To be quite honest, his response startled me.

The kid goes on a 15-minute rant about “ungrateful” minorities. Hispanics who identify as white and vote Republican. Asian nerds who study all the time and can’t accept the fact that black people are more oppressed and deserving of an Ivy League education. “Traitors” like Tim Scott whose ancestors “are ashamed.” Muslim immigrants who should “go back to Syria if they don’t want to celebrate LGBTQIA2S+ Pride Month or send their kids to Drag Queen story hour.” He voted for Elizabeth Warren in 2020.

Cullen, 18

Every Fourth of July we gather as a family and go around the table and talk about why we love America. This little pipsqueak used the occasion to “come out as pansexual” and express his desire to live in a country that accepts “vulnerable minorities like me.” I interjected to suggest he remove his face mask on account of the fact that it was 2023 and we were sitting outside.

“Ever heard of Long COVID?” he whined, the greasy tendrils of his unwashed mullet flapping in the breeze. “Ever heard of PTSD?” I remarked forcefully, raising my brand new H&K VP9 and dispatching a round into the glorious American sunset. I think he got the message. I left an Army recruitment brochure on his bedside table next to the bottle of anxiety pills that I flushed down the toilet and replaced with Hydroxychloroquine.

God Bless America!

Strickland