It's the day before July Fourth and since I have the best summer job ever (in which I nap at my desk and awaken only to occasionally answer the phone or play online poker), I decided to stage a theatrical reading of the Declaration of Indepen dence while standing on my chair. To commemorate this event I hung streamers around the office; ordered 1,000 red, white, and blue helium balloons; and even hired a chorus of monkeys to sing the national anthem.

My boss, however, objected and promptly revoked not only my pokerplaying privileges but also my right to stand on, twirl in, jump on, race with, or otherwise have any kind of fun with my cushioned leather chair that zooms so swiftly down the hallway. Boy, was she angry. And she hadn't even seen the bill those crazy monkeys had racked up on room service on her credit card.

Instead I staged a dramatic though silent reading of our great Declaration while quietly seated in this stupid fold ing chair (in which I have gone win less in seven hallway chair races thus far).

Maybe I don't have the best sum mer job after all. I wonder if that cho rus could use another baritone.

Dear John letter As I read this document to myself it struck me that despite the use of some confusing words (`` consanguinity,'' `` usurpations,'' `` totally whack'' ) it was laid out in quite a logical manner, clearly explaining why the colonists were displeased with England and felt they deserved independence.

It almost read like a Dear John let ter.

`` Dear King George,'' Jefferson and company seem to be saying, `` When someone isn't happy in a relationship, they owe it to themselves to make a change. They also owe the other party an explanation, so here it is.

`` Georgie, we haven't been happy for a long time. We feel neglected and mistreated. You're always away on business, forgetting to call, and when you do call it's only to give us ridicu lous rules like `Only buy imported tea' or `Let the army sleep in our house' or `Only one hour of television a day.' One hour -- come on! That's nowhere near enough time to watch our day time soaps.

`` You never listen, George, and so we are leaving you. Don't forget to feed the dog -- he's all yours now. We'll be staying at our mother's place.''

Sad little scrawl

Interestingly, the first signature I see on my stol -- er, borrowed copy of the Declaration, courtesy of the National Archives, is the sad little scrawl of a Mr. Button Gwinnett hail ing from Georgia.

Surely poor Button took plenty of ribbing from his cohorts, if not for his outlandish name then for his affinity for wearing bellbottoms just a few hundred years before they came into style.

Perhaps a twirl in a new leather chair would have cheered the guy up.

So what have we learned from our little history lesson today? Don't let your colonies feel unloved, and never leave the mini-bar unlocked when there are monkeys around. BILL ZUCK is desperately trying to attach wheels to his folding chair before the next race. To offer your casters, e-mail him at wcz78(at)(at)yahoo.com.