Capital offenses....
It’s July 4th Eve as I write this. This is NEPA, where the summer sun is a rumor, so once again the weather looks like trash, for which I’m grateful because this will limit the number of tiny-dicked firework-bros from plying their trade tonight, surrounded as they always are by a multitude of empty Miller Lite cans and admiring 12 year old boys whose parents have already abdicated. I’ve gone on the record numerous times expressing my hatred for backyard fireworks. The large, formal displays I have no problem with, because these are short and sweet and don’t land in my backyard or on my roof. But the drunken barrage of M80s and bottle rockets that turn neighborhoods into war zones and pets into shivering wrecks turns me savage. The morning-after stories of bros who woke up with 10 digits and ended their evening with 9 makes me uncomfortably happy. Not my finest hour as an empathetic human.