That’s the American spirit, Ms. Ross! Fuck the loom, just kick back in your rocker and suck down a cigarette in sheer disgust at the amount of time you wasted on that befouled hemorrhoid ring your accursed husband demanded for dessert. His fat ass can barely gird up his knickers, his horse’s back is caving in, and he hasn’t seen the fancybuckles on his heeled slippers in a bleak fortnight yet he demandeth of thee a doublage of sugar-vittles on top of the stitching of a flag for which no pattern doth exist. Well guess what, Ms. Ross…today doth be your Independence Day! Pack that flag like a hobo pouch, write him a note telling him to fuck yeself, and burn all his daguerreotypes on your way out the door to your seventeen year old spinster sister’s house.