Nurse the Hate: The Fireworks Dilemma

I don’t spend as much time with fireworks as I used to spend.  This could mean that I am becoming more “mature”.  However, when I hear that guys are “more mature” it usually means they are wearing ugly sweaters bought by their wives, don’t drink anymore, and spend 2+ hours a week in Bed, Bath, & Beyond.  I don’t want to be that guy living in quiet desperation trying to focus on the relative merits of a particular shower curtain.  It’s a real fear.  If you don’t have that fear, you better wake up Brother.  That will be you standing around in a backyard talking about building a “kid’s activity center” where you wanted to put the hot tub and keg.  It can get away from you quickly.

I will freely admit that I have skirted some real disasters over the years with fireworks.  There was the time I bought a “Barbie Dream House” which I blew up at a party with an M-200 sending plastic shrapnel in 15 different directions.  There was the time I blew up my brother’s roommate’s peanut butter at his college house sending about a pound of “smooth and creamy” onto the leaves of the nearby trees.  It wasn’t obvious it had happened at the time, however when 7500 grackles descended with deafening joy on the tree line that Sunday morning, it all became crystal clear.

There was the time in Pensacola when an errant rocket launched from a roommate’s sister’s rented condo blew up in the neighbor’s bedroom like a concussion grenade.  Frankly, I blame that on shoddy Chinese workmanship on attaching the plastic fins on that projectile.  It was a rough morning.  The police were not very pleased with the incident as the man who was essentially shelled was the condo association president and he raised holy hell.  I think technically I am still not allowed in the city limits of Pensacola Florida, though that has yet to cramp my lifestyle.  

I bought some monster rockets and tubes from a guy named “Whiskey” once.  Normally one feels a sense of confidence buying Chinese fireworks out of a semi-trailer parked off the highway from a man named “Whiskey”, especially since he wore a greasy baseball cap and was missing a front tooth.  That’s a mark of quality in the world of fireworks.  Yet, this trust turned out to be misplaced when one of the tubes had the shell blow out the side almost wiping out three generations of a girlfriend’s family.  I do recall the sounds of their screams as they found themselves trapped in a garage when the shell exploded in vivid color.  It was like being in the middle of the Beatles cartoon Yellow Submarine.  Amazingly no one got burned.  Badly at least.

Last night everyone was blowing off fireworks.  In true American spirit they were probably drunk, not reading directions, and giving the lighter to a 12 year old to light the fuse.  The dull whine and sharp crack of reports was all over the immediate area.  In my garage I have one lonely M-200.  I thought briefly about getting a watermelon from the fridge, wedging the explosive into it, and then watch it disappear in gunpowder tinged glory.  But it was late.  And I needed to go online.  And decide on a shower curtain.