Unlike other states, Michiganians (or Michiganders? Can I get a ruling here?) are apparently viewed as minors. Other grown-up states are allowed access to the full arsenal of holiday explosives. Not us. We are allowed something called “fireworks” but, if those are fireworks, than a Timex with a lap button is as good as a Garmin. I plunked down $9.99 for a sack full of Michigan style holiday cheer. For this $9.99, there was absolutely no hope that I would be horribly burned during ignition. No chance that a bottle would tip at the last second sending a rocket of red, white, and blue trailing sparks into Grandma’s forehead.
This sad little unlit bag sat in a corner of the family lakeside cottage deck fairly yawning from self boredom waiting for the sky to darken. In the meantime, a quick trip to Target unexpectedly scored two black and white checkered fedoras for my colt and my nephew. Fedoras in a kid size? Yes, yes, they simply must be had. The pimp line runs strong in this family. Never too early to get them started. I set up a volleyball about shoulder height and had them back hand it all afternoon to get their pimp hands strong. They had pretty good technique…using a long sweeping motion going from seven o’clock up through the lower part of the volleyball to one o’clock. I left them there to practice and, when I returned an hour later, they now had three volleyballs. Not sure where the other two volleyballs came from but one of them seemed to be new in town and just looking for a place to stay. Meanwhile, a Cadillac ticked away in our driveway as it cooled from a recent trip.
Finally, it was time for the fireworks “show.” Sparklers! Yay. Some longer, inappropriately named sparklers called “Morning Glories” (no kidding). Double yay. Finally, the lighting of the $9.99 sack of Michigan approved fun. Each cigar sized fired work sent an innocent, non-threatening three foot plume of yellow or green or blue or red sparkles into the air. Basically, a deluxe sparkler. Triple yay. It was so safe that the mosquitoes gathered around the new light and barely winced when some sparkle residue attached to their needle nose. The kids with their fedoras took the opportunity to do some robotic dancing in the flickering light. The volleyballs even seemed to be having a good time until my colt noticed, gave one a wicked back hand, and yelled “Get back to work.”
Ten minutes later, the fun was over. We were all safe. Not one of us took a trip in an ambulance. Thanks Michigan, thanks a lot. Next year, I’m going to Indiana to pick up real fireworks so that we can celebrate America in the proper manner: with military grade explosives in the hands of half drunk amateurs and children in cheap fedoras with pimp dreams. God bless the USA!
In the Shirtless Coalition, I conducted a poll to see who supports shirtless running and who
Poll results - 86 votes (so far):
Support Shirtless Running 35% (30 votes)
Why does Vanilla hate America? 29% (25 votes)
Wants to see Nitmos pecs 22% (19 votes)
Baby hating/Does not support it 14% (12 votes)
If you count the number of folks who just want to see my granite chiseled pecs, that’s a mandate! So, run on shirtless runners! We support you!
Another thing the poll revealed is that there is still a strong contingent of folks wondering why Vanilla, the banker, hates America. Short answer: I don’t know. He claims to be an American but then O.J. claims to be innocent too. What can you believe? I just know that – if I wanted to prove my patriotism – I wouldn’t do it by attacking Feet Meet Street, taking a curiously-timed sabbatical during 4th of July, and driving down home values. Right-o?
I'm a bit behind on everyone's recent races. I'll catch up with everyone soon. I think. Or I'll completely ignore you all. You probably deserve that anyhow right?