Personally, I love fireworks. I don't buy them much, though I did once. Some of my happiest childhood memories revolve around learning that lighting Black Cat firecrackers and then throwing them is a good way to burn your hand a bit. So a few years ago I spent, I think $40, on fireworks from a stand to share with my own honyocks.
They hadn't grown up with lighting fuses being a de rigueur part of the Fourth, and as a result Mo was apathetic and Em was fearful of these products. Which is fine with me, the pro stuff is way more impressive and while I might indirectly pay into public displays, I don't have to actually see my money turn to smoke.
Corinna brought Max down, and taught me a new way to spend a fortune on the Fourth of July: try beating fleas this year.
Max doesn't seem to mind them, and in fact I suspect he tells them, I always wanted an entourage! You're going to like Momma.
But every flea gives birth to a dozen phantom fleas who bite you in places you can see are innocent of bugs. So after treating the fleas at her house the way Saddam treated the Kurds, Corinna bathed max with flea-killing shampoo and dosed him with Frontline before even bringing him into my domicile.
Then we followed tradition and got ice cream and headed to Edgerton. Edgerton and Gardner are basically Siamese twin cities, two runt bedroom communities living on the edge (of KC) joined at the knees.
While this is occasionally awkward, the cities do cooperate on fireworks displays, meaning the smaller twin holds theirs the day before, especially if the Fourth comes on a weekend. Great for me, as I get to see two displays on two nights, eight miles apart. And if weather scrubs one, I always have the other.
One thing about Edgerton, they haven't caught on to the whole fireworks ban fad. Neither has Corinna's neighborhood, which is partly why she brought Max down to Gardner (the alternative was to get Valium for the poor pup). So while only a full outlaw will shoot his own on my street, Edgertonians (or whatever you call them) will fearlessly set off borderline IEDs in front of a Sheriff's Deputy.
They will also, it turns out, share with those who are obviously too poor, too tight, or too safety-conscious (take your pick) to have their own arsenal, which is how Mo got gifted with a flaming baton.
Of course, once the sun went down the real fireworks began and made all the stuff in the park look like small beer, even the stuff I'm certain was illegal. One of the illegals went off near me and Corinna chided me for wishing the guy who threw it would blow his god-damned hand off.
Then I read in the paper where some likeminded goobers actually managed to accomplish this.
Full disclosure: I bought some sparklers to use in a light painting experiment (here is what I aspire to). While I was in the tent, I noticed a huge package of fireworks shrink-wrapped and labeled 'King of the Block.'
Which is, I suppose, the title these dorks were fighting over. I see myself as above that fray, but given that I bought my own pointless fireworks at that very stand, I guess I have no room to judge.
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