In order to celebrate our Nation’s independence from the British, we as Americans decided to ceremonially blow shit up. Makes sense.
Firecrackers as a little kid was probably about as dangerous as playing with knives, needles and fire rolled up into one.
I remember growing up in the Bronx there was a story about the neighborhood drunk smoking cigarettes and lighting M80s and throwing them into the water. He’d light the M80 with his cigarette, throw the lit bomb, and then go back to smoking. It was all good until he mixed up the order, threw his cigarette into the water, went to smoke the M80, and blew off his face. True Story. Urban Legend.
Did that dissuade me from blowing shit up err Fourth of July???
FOR SURE NOT.
I started off small as a kid, nothing major. Hell it was mostly confined to drawing my name in the sky with sparklers, throwing Snappers at my friends, and busting Cap Guns. Hardly even firecrackers.
But then I grew a little older and I wanted the hard shit. I wanted to go with some Black Ops type of shit. The next natural step was Smoke Bombs, the gateway to fireworks/crackers.
Where did I get my smoke bombs? Where else – the motherfuckin Ice Cream Man.
(Quick little aside and mini-throwback of its own right here, how fucking WEIRD are Ice Cream Men? I mean seriously, how sick do you have to be to aspire to be a GD Ice Cream Man? Now, growing up in the hood, my Ice Cream man was a one-stop-shop for everything a deliquent could use.
You could step up and be like “lemme get…lemme get, um, the baseball mitt ice cream with the gum ball in the middle, a red white and blue firecracker popsicle, 5 green smoke bombs and 2 dime bags of that sticky icky. Oh, and please don’t kidnap and rape me in your van, Mr. Pedophile. Thanks”
Later in life when I was in like 8th grade my Ice Cream Man was actually a large butch lesbian who I eventually found out worked at topless dive bar named Billy Budd’s. But that is neither here nor there.
P.S. these are the things I talk to my therapist about)
Back to the matter at hand. So I stared killing it with smoke bombs, but I itched for more. So then I scooped up some of your traditional actual firecrackers – the same kind Kevin McAllister uses in Home Alone to trick Marv into thinking that Snakes was blown away by Johnny and scare off the Little Nero pizza man.
Those KILLED it.
From there we moved on to Bottle Rockets. This was essentially the most dangerous thing a young child could get their hands on. They are fucking missiles. We used to put them inside the little hole at the end of a wiffle ball bat and we basically created a rocket launcher. Where the fuck were my mom and dad growing up? P.S. – any kids who try to shoot bottle rockets out of their assholes need to Kill Themselves
I think my fireworks career peaked at Roman Candles, which basically shot fire balls into the sky. I will NEVER forget one of my craziest friends set off this HUGE bundle of Roman Candles that lasted for some absurd amount of time like 12 straight minutes. Had the police swarming looking for us as we hid in bushes and shit.
Rockets Red Glare, bitches. Rockets Red Glare.