This really has nothing to do with Memorial day and I could care less about anyone’s view on the military and those who served.  I find myself dwelling more and more on the human ability to take a horrendous occurrence and turning it into a reason to celebrate.

If you believe that God so loved the earth that he gave his only begotten son to hang like a piñata so we could go to heaven, then you commemorate the occasion by decorating a tree and exchanging gifts. If MLK the second dies because he had a dream that all people could actually be equal, then we take an extra day off to drag the kids to the lake.

Now before you say it, let me stop you.  I know that I’m oversimplifying things.  I’m travelling right now, so I’m already in a sour mood.  As I was waiting to make a left, I look over and see this shirtless and grossly obese man with a hotdog sticking halfway out of his maw watching the musicians at a festival take their gear apart.  You can sense where it went from there.

My dad is such an asshole.  That being said, when these “holidays” passed, they were solemn occasions. We were told what they were in honor of and we were taught to respect those that the day commemorated. Well, except for MLK’s holiday.  My dad is one of those passive racists, so he didn’t spend a lot of time discussing that. For Christmas, we exchanged presents only after reading from the bible and saying a really big prayer, in an effort to hold off the smiting for another year.

My point is simply this.  You should never wonder why each generation’s offspring continually harbor an ever-shrinking sense of gravity and appreciation.

Everything warrants a celebration.