Fourth of July commercial scripts

Your uncle has opinions about the grill. He has opinions about everything. Redfield Franks. All beef, no fillers, ready in six minutes. He'll still say you're doing it wrong. That part isn't our fault. Redfield Franks.

The Pillowmont Fourth of July Mattress Sale is on! Every queen set, four ninety-nine. Free delivery. Free setup. Four days only. Sleep on it? Don't sleep on it. Pillowmont Mattress Outlet. Sale ends Sunday.

You have ten fingers. It's a good number. Let's keep it. This Fourth of July, leave the big fireworks to the professionals. A message from the Cedar County Fire District. See the show. Keep the count.

To you, it's fireworks. To your dog, the sky is breaking. On July fourth, keep pets indoors, tags on, with a quiet room ready. Shelters fill up on July fifth. Keep yours home. From Fennimore Animal Shelter.

There are two kinds of people at a fireworks show. People with ice cream, and people watching people with ice cream. Frostwick Creamery. Open late on the Fourth, right by the park. Frostwick. Be the first kind.

Thunder Jack's Fireworks is open! Big tent, corner of Route Nine and Miller Road. Buy one, get one on every fountain, sparkler and rocket. Your neighbors are gonna love you. Or call somebody. Thunder Jack's. Open till midnight.

It's July fourth. It's ninety-four degrees. And somebody forgot the ice. It was you. Lantern Corner stores. Ten-pound bags, two ninety-nine, open all day on the Fourth. Lantern Corner. Nobody has to know.

Same route. Same fire truck. Same kid on a bike with streamers, only now it's his kid. The Harlow Falls Fourth of July Parade. Main Street, ten a.m. Bring a chair. Wave at everybody.

The cooler is packed. The playlist is set. The fireworks start at nine. One more thing to plan. The ride home. If you're drinking this Fourth, don't drive. A message from Tri-County Safe Roads.

Nobody remembers who brought the napkins. Everybody remembers who brought the pie. Cherry, peach and blueberry lattice from Henhouse Pie Company. Order by July second, pick up on the third. Henhouse Pies. Be remembered.

Some things you buy once. A Hale and Harbor flag is sewn, not printed, with stitched stripes and brass fittings built to last through every July. Hang it on the Fourth. Leave it up as long as you like. Hale and Harbor.

Red, white and blue is a great look for the yard. Red is a bad look for your shoulders. Sunhatch SPF fifty. Sweat-proof, pool-proof, parade-proof. Sunhatch. Enjoy the Fourth. Skip the burn.

You thump it. You listen. You nod like you know what that means. Nobody knows what that means. At Pruitt Farm Stand, every watermelon is ripe. Five dollars each through July fourth. Pruitt's. Thump away.

A paper plate has one job. Hold the beans. Hold the slaw. Hold a burger the size of a hubcap. And do not fold. Stoutleaf plates. Triple-ply, soak-proof, cookout-ready. Stoutleaf. We hold up our end.

The parade goes right past your house this year. So does everybody you know. Fairway Brothers Lawn Care. Mowed, edged and striped by July third, starting at forty-five dollars. Fairway Brothers. Let them look.

Road trip this Fourth? Check your tires! Right now at Wheelwright Tire, buy three, get the fourth free! Free rotation. Free balance. Out in an hour. The fourth tire. Free. On the Fourth. Wheelwright Tire. We did that on purpose.

Your freezer is full. The ribs don't fit. Company comes Saturday. The Brannigan's Fourth of July Appliance Sale. Chest freezers from one ninety-nine, delivered tomorrow. Brannigan's Appliance. Because the ribs are not going back.

Two movies. One giant screen. And when the credits roll, don't start the car. Fireworks over the field, July fourth, at the Moonpost Drive-In. Ten dollars a carload. Moonpost. Pack the car. All of it.

Holiday weekends are busy for hospitals. And donations drop, because everyone's at the lake. Before you go, give a pint. It takes forty minutes. Overbrook Community Blood Center. Open July third. Somebody's counting on a stranger.

We put the brisket on at five last night. Fourteen hours over oak. Nobody rushed it. You could do that yourself this Fourth. Or you could call Smokeline Barbecue and pick it up at noon. Smokeline. Take the credit.

It's the Dunmore Auto Mall Fourth of July Sell-Down, and everything goes! Over three hundred new and pre-owned cars, trucks and SUVs, marked down and ready to roll. Zero down. Zero payments until October. And up to four thousand dollars for your trade, running or not! Hot dogs on the lot. Balloons for the kids. Deals for the grown-ups. But the fireworks end Monday at nine, and so do these prices. Dunmore Auto Mall. Highway Twelve at Exit Six. Hurry in!

Every Fourth of July, a man stands at a grill and says, we've got plenty of propane. He doesn't check. He just knows. Twenty minutes later, forty burgers are raw, eleven relatives are staring, and that man is driving very fast. Bluecap Propane Exchange. Swap your empty tank for a full one in two minutes, at over two hundred stores near you. Bluecap. Get a spare. He won't ask for one. Get it anyway.

Company's coming Saturday. Let's be honest about the backyard. The grill has a wheel missing. The hose leaks. And that lawn chair folded up on your brother-in-law last year, with him in it. Stillwater Hardware has it all this week. Gas grills from one ninety-nine. Patio chairs, two for thirty. Charcoal, hoses, string lights and bug spray, all on sale through July fourth. Stillwater Hardware. Fix it before they see it.

For most of us, the Fourth of July is a day off. For some of our neighbors, it's the loudest night of the year, in a year that's already been hard. Second Watch helps local veterans with rides to appointments, home repairs, and somebody to call who has been there too. This Fourth, a flag is nice. A phone call is better. Second Watch Veterans Fund. Give an hour. Give a dollar. Show up.

There's a dock at Pinewater Lake where the fireworks happen twice. Once in the sky. Once on the water. Spend the Fourth of July weekend with us. Cabins that sleep six. Kayaks, a fish fry on Friday, and a bonfire every night. Three nights from four hundred and ninety dollars, and kids stay free. No traffic. No parking garage. Just the lake, doing its thing. Pinewater Lake Resort. A few cabins are left. Not many.

The whole cookout, one stop, at Dellwood Fresh Market. Ground chuck, three ninety-nine a pound. Sweet corn, ten ears for three dollars. Watermelons, four ninety-nine each. Buns, chips and lemonade, all buy one, get one. That's a cookout for twelve for under sixty dollars. You still have to invite the neighbors. We can't help with that. Dellwood Fresh Market. Prices good through July fourth.

On the Fourth of July, this lake gets about four times the boats and about half the patience. So here's the short version. Life jackets on, not under the seat. A sober driver at the wheel, same as a car. And slow down near the docks, because kids jump off them. We'd love to wave at you this weekend. We'd rather not meet you. A message from the Lake Marlow Water Patrol.

Baseball. Hot dogs. And the biggest fireworks show in the county. July third at Calloway Field, your Kingfishers take on Port Dalton at seven oh five. Dollar hot dogs all night. The first thousand fans get a free cap. And when the last out is made, stay in your seat. The lights go down, and the sky goes up. Kingfishers baseball. Tickets start at nine dollars. The fireworks are free.

My grandmother had two rules for the Fourth of July. Nobody goes hungry. And nobody pours their own tea. She made it in the big glass jar, on the porch rail, in the sun. Took all morning. Miss Odelia's Sweet Tea tastes like that. Real brewed tea, real cane sugar, nothing you can't pronounce. It does not take all morning. I think she'd forgive me. Miss Odelia's Sweet Tea. In the cold case. Pour one for somebody.

Here is the plan for July fourth. Seven a.m., you run three point one miles through downtown Elm Hollow with eight hundred neighbors and one man dressed as an eagle. Eight a.m., you get a medal, a popsicle, and bragging rights. For the rest of the day, you eat whatever you want and nobody can say a word. The Elm Hollow Firecracker Run. Sign up at the rec center by July first. Walkers welcome. Eagle optional.

Air conditioners are smart. They know when you're having people over. That's why they quit on the Fourth of July, at two in the afternoon, with twenty guests in the living room. Don't give yours the chance. Northwind Heating and Air will tune up your system this week for sixty-nine dollars. And if it breaks anyway, we answer the phone on the holiday. A real person. Same day. Northwind Heating and Air. Stay cool. Look calm.

Things we treated last July fourth. A sparkler burn. A sunburn shaped like a tank top. A volleyball to the nose. And one man who said, watch this. Pinebrook Urgent Care is open nine to nine on the holiday. No appointment. Most visits under an hour. We hope you don't need us. We really do. But if somebody says, watch this, we're on Franklin Avenue, next to the pharmacy. Pinebrook Urgent Care.

There is no signal at Tamarack Hollow Campground. We checked. We're not fixing it. What we do have is ninety wooded sites, a swimming hole, and a Fourth of July potluck where a man named Dale brings his chili every single year. At dark, the kids get sparklers and the grown-ups get quiet. Tent sites are thirty dollars a night. Hookups, forty-five. Tamarack Hollow. Your phone won't work. You'll be fine.

On the Fourth of July, everybody in Driftwood Key ends up in the same place. Around eight, the shops close. Folks carry chairs down to the sand. Somebody's radio is playing. Somebody's toddler is asleep already. Then the first one goes up, and four thousand people say ooh at the same time. You don't have to live here to belong here. You just have to show up by eight. Driftwood Key. Fireworks at nine. The beach is free.

Your pool has a secret, and the secret is that it's a little bit green. You've got until Saturday. That's when the cousins arrive, and the cousins will say something. Bring a water sample to Cannonball Pool Supply. We test it free, tell you exactly what it needs, and get you clear in forty-eight hours. Shock, chlorine and floats are all twenty percent off this week. Cannonball Pool Supply. Blue by the Fourth. That's a promise.

It hasn't rained here in six weeks. The grass is the color of straw, and it burns like it. So this Fourth of July, we're asking for a favor. Skip the fireworks at the cabin. Drown the campfire until it's cold to the touch. And keep the trailer chains from dragging on the road. There's a free show over the reservoir at nine thirty. Come watch that one with us. One spark is all it takes. From the Elk Summit Fire Council.

Most of us have never heard the Declaration of Independence out loud. The whole thing, start to finish. It takes about ten minutes. It has some very long sentences. And it was written to be read to a crowd, on a street, by somebody's neighbor. So that's what we do. July fourth, eleven a.m., on the courthouse steps. Thirty volunteers, one line each. The youngest is nine. Come listen. Or sign up and take a line. The Wexford County Historical Society. Lemonade after.

Camping on the Fourth of July sounds great until about ten p.m. That's when you remember the ground is hard, the tent is small, and the nearest bathroom is a flashlight walk away. Wanderhitch RV Rentals. A real bed. A real fridge. Air conditioning. And yes, a door that locks. Holiday weekend rentals start at one twenty-nine a night, and we'll teach you to park it. Wanderhitch. All of the campfire. None of the ground.

Everybody loves this beach on the Fourth of July. We'd like to talk about the fifth. Last year, volunteers picked up two tons of trash here the morning after. Cups. Wrappers. Nine hundred spent sparklers. One folding chair, still open. So this year, pack a trash bag with the cooler. Fill it before you leave. That's the whole ask. And if you're up early on the fifth, we meet at the pier at seven. Coffee's on us. The Gull Point Shoreline Alliance.

This is it! The Castellano Brothers Fourth of July Furniture Blowout, four days only, Thursday through Sunday! Every sofa, every sectional, every recliner in the showroom is marked down, some up to sixty percent off! Three-piece living room sets, starting at seven ninety-nine! Solid wood dining tables with six chairs, eleven ninety-nine! Recliners, two for five hundred! That's right, two! And it gets better. Pay nothing down and no interest for twenty-four months. Free delivery anywhere in the tri-county area. And we'll haul your old couch away for free. Now, my brother says these prices are too low. My brother says we're going to lose our shirts. My brother is not in this commercial. So come on down! Doors open at eight a.m. Thursday. The first fifty families get a free flag and a hot dog off the grill. Castellano Brothers Furniture, on Old Mill Road across from the fairgrounds. Four days. Sixty percent. Zero down. When the fireworks are over, so is the sale!

Before the parade, before the cookout, before anybody lights anything, there's a quiet hour on the Fourth of July. The flag on the porch isn't moving yet. The street is empty. Somebody down the block is setting out folding chairs for people who won't show up until noon. That's the part I like. Because the day isn't really about the noise. It's about the idea that ordinary people get a say. That a town belongs to whoever lives in it. That you can disagree with your neighbor about nearly everything and still save him a seat. We don't always get it right. We keep at it anyway. That might be the best part of the whole idea. So today, wave at the floats. Thank the folks who served. Eat too much. Stay for the fireworks. And tomorrow, we'll all get back to work on it. Happy Fourth of July, from all of us at Granite Street Credit Union. Your neighbors since nineteen fifty-two.

Clear your calendar, Marigold Bay. The Fourth is on a Saturday this year, and we are using every hour of it. Eight a.m., the pancake breakfast at the firehouse. Five dollars, all you can eat, and yes, the chief is flipping. Ten o'clock, the parade steps off from the high school and heads down Bay Street. Decorated bikes go first, so get the streamers out. Noon to five, it's the festival on the green. Live music, a pie contest, a dunk tank with the high school principal in it, and the watermelon seed spitting finals. The record is thirty-one feet. Somebody's grandmother holds it. Then, at nine fifteen, find a blanket and look toward the water. Twenty-two minutes of fireworks, launched from the barge, with the town band playing along. It's free. All of it. Parking is at the school, and the shuttle runs all day. Marigold Bay Fourth Fest. Come early. Stay late. Bring a chair for somebody who forgot theirs.

Every Fourth of July since nineteen seventy-one, the Oak Fork Volunteer Fire Department has cooked chicken in the parking lot. Same pits. Same sauce. The recipe is in a coffee can in the chief's truck, and no, you can't see it. We start the fires at four in the morning. By eleven, the line goes past the feed store. By one, we're sold out, and somebody always acts surprised. Here's what that chicken paid for last year. New hoses. Two sets of turnout gear. And a radio that works on the far side of the ridge, where it used to go quiet. Nobody at this station gets a paycheck. We're farmers and teachers and one fella who sells insurance. When your call comes in, we leave our supper and we come. So on the Fourth, come eat with us. Half a chicken, slaw, a roll and a tea, twelve dollars. Oak Fork Volunteer Fire Department. Get there before one. I'm telling you now, so don't act surprised.

I'd like to speak on behalf of the mosquitoes. We love the Fourth of July. We look forward to it all year. You come outside at dusk. You wear shorts. You stand perfectly still for twenty minutes, looking up. It's a buffet. With a light show. Last year was our best ever. There was a man in a lawn chair on Birch Street. Sandals. No socks. I won't say what we did, but we still talk about him. And then somebody brought out Quietdusk. One spray. No smell, no grease, eight hours. We couldn't find you. We circled the yard like we'd lost our keys. My cousin gave up and bit a garden hose. So I'm asking you, nicely. This Fourth, leave the Quietdusk on the shelf. Think of the mosquitoes. Think of our families. No? Fine. Quietdusk outdoor repellent. Eight hours of nobody bothering you. Available wherever they are trying to ruin our summer.

Captain Ray here, and I've got a problem. I've got too many boats! It's the Captain Ray's Boat Barn Fourth of July Clearance, and every boat on this lot has got to go! Pontoons! Bass boats! Ski boats! Jet skis! If it floats, it's on sale! Brand-new twenty-foot pontoons, starting at nineteen nine! That's nineteen thousand nine hundred dollars, with the trailer, and I'll throw in the life jackets! Used fishing boats from forty-nine ninety-five! Financing for everybody, with payments as low as one ninety-nine a month! Now, I should tell you, I'm not a real captain. I get seasick on a dock. But I know boats, and I know a deal when I'm giving one. Come by this weekend. We'll have catfish frying, sweet tea pouring, and a free tube with every boat sold, while they last. Captain Ray's Boat Barn. Highway Forty-One, two miles past the dam. Open Friday, Saturday, and all day on the Fourth. Summer's half over, friend. Get on the water!

Here's what goes in the box. Beef jerky. Drink mix. Good socks, because they always ask for socks. A paperback. A deck of cards. And one letter, written by hand, from somebody they've never met. Every summer, volunteers at the Shoebox Brigade pack three thousand of these in a church gym. They go to service members who are spending the Fourth of July a long way from the cookout. We get notes back sometimes. They don't mention the jerky. They mention the letter. One said, I read it four times. One said, tell the kid who drew the dog that the dog is on my wall. You don't need to know what to say. Say what you had for dinner. Say who won the game. Say thanks. That's plenty. Packing day is the last Saturday in June, nine a.m. Bring socks if you can. Bring a pen either way. The Shoebox Brigade. It's a small box. It's not a small thing.

A Fourth of July timeline. Noon. You have one hot dog. Reasonable. Twelve fifteen. Someone says, there's plenty. You have a second hot dog and a burger. Still fine. One o'clock. Your aunt's seven-layer dip. You count the layers. You eat all seven. Two thirty. Ribs. You weren't hungry. That has never stopped you. Four o'clock. Somebody's kid dares you to enter the pie eating contest. You are a grown adult. You win the pie eating contest. Five. Corn. Because it's a vegetable. Nine p.m. The fireworks start. Everyone looks up. You are lying flat on a blanket, not because it's the best view, but because it is the only position available to you. Settlewell antacid tablets. Fast relief from heartburn and that too-full feeling, in cherry or mint. Keep a roll in your pocket. Not for now. For around two thirty. Settlewell. You're going to do it again next year. We'll be here.

The Alderbrook Community Band has forty-one members. A dentist on trumpet. Two sisters on clarinet who haven't missed a rehearsal since the nineties. A retired mail carrier on tuba, and a fifteen-year-old drummer who is better than all of us and knows it. We are not professionals. We want to be clear about that. But every Fourth of July, at seven o'clock, we set up in the bandstand at Alderbrook Park, and something happens. The marches come out right. The piccolo hits the high part. People who came for the fireworks sit down on the grass and stay for the music. Near the end, we play the armed forces medley, and we ask the veterans to stand when they hear their song. Every year there are a few more empty spots. Every year the applause gets louder to make up for it. The concert is free. Bring a blanket. The fireworks start when we finish, or when we run out of breath. The Alderbrook Community Band. July fourth. Seven o'clock. We've been practicing.