Fourth of July Warning: Shoots Flaming Balls

My eight-year-old stepson, perhaps like most kids his age, has a total boner when it comes to fireworks. I hear about it all freaking year, and it's understandably worse than usual as July 4th nears.

"I hope I can blow up some fireworks."
"Are we gonna go see fireworks?"
"Can we go buy some fireworks?"

Shut the fuck up about fireworks.

I love my country, but I hate the Fourth of July. It's almost always dreadfully hot and humid (although this year was an amazing exception in my part of the country), and all most people care about is blowing shit up and watching shit get blown up. My stepson, again, like many others, couldn't even tell me why the Fourth of July is a holiday; yet he was the recipient of more than $100 worth of fireworks this weekend, much of which disturbingly contained the disclaimer that's listed as the title of this blog entry: 'Warning: Shoots Flaming Balls'

A few other nuggets of holiday cheer, which may or may not come as any surprise:

• It sprinked on a couple of occasions here Saturday, and I was actually hoping it would rain more. I would have had a great appreciation for all of the disappointment surrounding the planned fireworks displays.
  
  
• I rooted like crazy for Andy Roddick to win the mens' Wimbledon final Sunday, but I couldn't bring myself to watch the Williams sisters battle for the ladies' title on the morning of the Fourth. There's no way this is going to come off right, but they just seem a little socially challenged. I know their father sheltered them as much as he could while they were being raised, and maybe that's what shows. I'm not even going to try to explain it any further.
  
  
• I lost a bet with myself this weekend. My wife felt the need to line our driveway on each side with little American flags. I was sure someone would run over one with a vehicle, and I was fairly certain it was going to be her. Congratulations, sweetheart, I was wrong. Let's go blow some shit up to celebrate.