Everyone in Dallas had been counting down, and it was finally here: the day they watched the President’s head explode.

When he arrived, the President stood up in his convertible and said, “I don’t know, folks. Maybe my head shouldn’t blow up.” Boos from the crowd. “You want it to explode?” Cheers. “Louder!”

The President put his hand to his ear while dodging the first bullet. He was making them earn it, and they loved him for that.

“Brains. Brains. Brains,” the crowd started to chant. Those who weren’t chanting had popcorn in one hand and an official Zapruder camera in the other. “We could do this another time though!” the President shouted. The crowd was loving him even more. “Bones! Bones! BONES!” The First Lady was going nuts.

The confetti canons were blasting, the music was blasting. Each song was about the President’s head blowing up, and each song was more patriotic than the one before and after. Mr. President pretended to sing along while he was sweating bullets and dodging more bullets. During his solo he sang, “Think of a world / with no exploding Presidential heads. / That world could be / America.”

The crowd was full-on rioting. Mosh pitting with everyone in rubber masks of the President’s head exploding. “Boom goes the head! Boom goes the head!” More people inside his convertible than out. “Folks. I can’t do this. I can’t have my head explode today. Oh god please don’t let me die this way. What about my kids and—“

Then his noggin went kaboom and everyone cried. The dads saluted. Most people yelled in unison. They danced. They laughed. Then they went home, excited to do it all over again next year.