Dawn breaks over the harbor at Newport Town. Golden, pristine, leaden with the promise of the world. I have returned to the sea, my enchanted mistress, not to seek my fortune, but to serve mankind. Donning the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics tank top once gifted to me by a TD Bank Customer Satisfaction Specialist, I stride forth towards my destiny.

’Tis the day of the Southern Rhode Island Trump 2020 Boat Parade.


A more motley assortment of men has scarcely been seen as that which assembles at the marina down past the Dunks on Route 6. I see men in blue polo shirts, in light blue polo shirts, in polo shirts that are white with blue stripes. I see visors betraying all manner of exotic origin: Accenture, DeFlippo Lawn Care & Hardscaping, the 2016 Winnegussett Club Skins Tournament. My humble heart swells with pride — ’tis a testament to providence that I, the lowly son of a dentist, should find myself here, among their ranks.

Would that my parents could see me embark today. Alas, they’re amongst the blessed of us who have departed to a better place: Sarasota, Florida, where they recently relocated for tax purposes.


A hand grasps my shoulder. I turn and, in a fit of surprise, nearly fall into the cod-choked muck, for there before me is my old mate Phil Dennison! We chum up and fall right back into our salad days in the Polaris Investments Executive Training Program.

’Tis a comfort to know that I will set sail with a familiar face, and one who, I soon learn, has not changed one bit. Did he get smashed at Spanky’s Pub last night? Aye, he did. Did he then blow two grand at the Foxy Lady? Aye, he did. Did he stick it in that hot cocktail waitress with the nose ring? Nay, he did not. But he pledges to try again.


I have been crewed to the Ba Ba Buoy, as fine a ship as exists this side of Bristol. She is equipped with, not only White Claw, but also Truly Hard Seltzer and Twisted Tea. And if the voyage ‘ere four weeks instead of four hours, still we could not eat all the Pringles she holds in her galley.

With the warmth of a thousand suns I embrace her captain, my cousin Dave. So happy am I to be back on the rolling sea that I also hug his wife Liz, even though she’s an annoying bitch who accused me of over-imbibing last Christmas.


Alas, all bad feelings between Liz and myself dissipate in short order, erased by the awesome sight of the flotilla at sail. The sun is nearly blotted out by our banners: American flags, Trump flags, those flags of Southern heritage that we Rhode Islanders wave so proudly.

’Tis hard not to see the auspices of fortune ahead of us, for soon we will be tying up at Captain Sharky’s, where we will find fifty-cent wings until 7:30.


The sea is fine and fair, as smooth as marble. With every spray of saltwater across our bow, tyranny’s grip around our country is loosened. Verily, a sip of black cherry White Claw on the open water is the taste of freedom.

The roar of a V8 Yamaha outboard with 350 horsepower is the song of freedom. The moment we nearly crash into the rocks trying to get a closer look at the woman off starboard who has painted the visage of William Barr on one breast and Mike Pompeo on the other is the narrowly avoided nautical disaster of freedom.


Duplicity and intrigue on the high seas!

A globalist cuck has stowed away in the hold of The Ba Ba Buoy: Dave and Liz’s prissy teenage son Kyle. He emerges from below deck with the fire of mutiny in his eyes, attempting to undermine our captain’s authority by insisting that “Born In The USA” is not, in fact, a patriotic song.

After a struggle of wits, our pimple-faced Pitcairnian is subdued with a Capri Sun and a phone charger, leaving us to our revelries on deck, where the captain ably switches from Springsteen to CCR.


With the sun departing for other skies, we make our triumphant landing at Captain Sharky’s Dockside Grill. Our joy is short-lived, however, as it becomes apparent that Phil Dennison is not among us. Rumors swirl through port: pirates? Drug-runners? A cadre of liberal elite English professors?

Alas, his majestic cruiser, the She Got The House, sails into port. Supping on our second platter of wings, Phil regales us with a harrowing tale that would haunt any mariner. His ship mistakenly set sail without its White Claw this morning, and upon returning to port, Phil found that a dastardly wharf rat had absconded with the lot of it. It was thanks only to divine providence and a trip to the liquor store down past the Dunks that the journey was salvaged.

I drink easy knowing that my friend is safe and, as I soon see, unchanged by his grievous voyage. Does he call Kyle a pansy when he orders honey mustard instead of buffalo wings? Aye, he does. Does he pantomime intercourse with the comely meteorologist who presents WJAR’s five-day forecast on the TV above the bar? Aye, he does. Does he leave his phone number on the credit card receipt for the waitress, along with a generous 17% tip? Aye, he does.

And if the winds of fortune continue to propel us forward as they propel our country, he will stick it in her in due course.

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