Even if you're not a resident of the U.S. of A., you have probably been kept awake for days by the incessant clatter of fireworks eminating from every crevice of our fair nation. Sorry about that. Though we do seem to have an itch for blowing things up in other places, normally the explosives are kept under lock and key by authorities such as the Army, the ATF, and, for farmers needing to blow boulders or stumps from their property, the local Farm and Fleet store (who do in fact carry C4 and blasting caps for just such purposes). But no, normally we do not drink lots of beer and give children access to M80s, Whistling Dixies, Black Cats, and the like.
Nonetheless, each and every July 4th we like to throw back a few dozen cold ones and hand over the explosives to our teenagers in celebration of the anniversary of our independence from our colonial overlords the Redcoats (who are now known as Our Friends) over 200 years ago. The recipe doesn't make much sense to me either, but it seems to have worked for decades and decades, so why would we mess with success? The drawbacks seem to be (1) a few days of noise of global proportions, and (2) a hangover such that teenagers lighting firecrackers for days on end can't move us from our beds, couches, or floors. It being Monday, however, we have finally begun to drag ourselves in to work and are yelling at the kids to give it a rest already.
Thanks to Another Satisfied Pugsely Rider In Burke, VA, for the photo, which I think captures the Spirit of '76 in high style, even though nothing appears to be on fire or about to explode. Barbie, holding a beer, riding a Pugsley while waving Ol' Glory. Lee Greenwood would be proud.
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