I find myself writing the same thing every year, but the white trash practice of blowing off fireworks late into the night is one of those “thrills” that’s never appealed to me.
Last night, my neighborhood came alive with what was likely the yield of a day trip to Indiana’s finest explosives shops.
Just so I have it straight…light fireworks. Run away. Wait for the boom. Giggle nervously. Repeat. Yeah, not for me.
Not for my dog, either. She spent much of the night cowering in the back corner of my home office. When I woke up this morning, she shot me a look that said, “When the 4th of July week is finally over, you and I are going for a walk through the neighborhood. Only this time, Dad, don’t bring the poop bags. Time to teach them sonsabitches a lesson.”