Friday, July 3, 2015

I Secretly Hate Amateur Fireworks

I know this makes me the Fourth of July's official Ebeneezer Scrooge, but I secretly hate amateur fireworks. A lot. Like, I pretty much hate everything about them.

From the loud, jarring, war zone noise; to the dogs freaking out as a result of the loud, jarring, war zone noise; to the fact that you could easily lose a finger, toe, or eye setting them off; to the drunk and stupid WHOOHOOOO aspect; to the fact that they don't even look 1% as cool as real fireworks; to the fact that My Very First Asshole loved them and I will forever have a bad association with them as a result; to their propensity to incinerate acres of land that's already ablaze in climate-change related forest fires; to the fact that they (in addition to bugs) are making me hide out inside and write a blog post instead of socializing with the neighbors.

Like I don't really get why you have to take this:

And add this:

Is everything that much cooler now? Really? I guess I don't get why it's so American to pretend you're in Afghanistan for a day. Like your dick didn't actually grow any bigger as a result of blowing a bunch of cash on amateur explosives and drinking a sixer of Coors Light. You're not a patriotic version of Pinnochio where the more things you light on fire, the longer your dick grows. Maybe you are. I wouldn't know. I don't have a dick to begin with. 

All I know is don't stick a Roman Candle down your pants. You might be sorry you did.

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