Liquid Wisdom

THIS MONTH’S TOPIC: THE FOURTH OF JULY

Happy Fourth of July! The Fourth is one of my most favorite holidays. Unlike a lot of American celebrations, it has nothing to do with religion, love or secretaries. You don’t have to wrap any gifts, buy flowers or call your mom. Just hang out, eat hot dogs, go to the beach and try not to be enslaved by an English person—unless it’s Kate Beckinsale. Damn, she’s hot! Did you see Underworld? She plays this vampire chick who runs around in spandex shooting werewolves. Lots of violence and heavy camel toe. Katie, you can bite me anytime. Sorry, back to the Fourth of July.

How did Independence Day get started? In the summer of 1776, the founding fathers gathered in Philadelphia to sign the Declaration of Independence. This hallowed document, written by Thomas Jefferson (see the twenty-dollar bill), guaranteed each citizen the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Upon reading it, all the people let out a big cheer—unless they were black, Native American or female. But the founding white dudes were happy, and a great party broke out, and the night sky was full of fireworks for the people to ooh-eth and aah-eth at.

I’m not kidding that they had fireworks back then. In fact, the second president, John Adams (no money, just stamps) remarked, “[The Fourth] ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade…bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other, from this day forward forevermore.” Then his drunk cousin Sam Adams chased him around with a Roman candle.

Yes, fireworks have always been a part of the Fourth. Every year, in cities and towns across the country, they have elaborate fireworks shows set to patriotic music like “America, the Beautiful.” So far, they’re not often paired with hip-hop. I’ve yet to see a display set to “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp.” Although beautiful and symbolic, these shows are usually jam-packed with people, and I find myself thinking more about parking than freedom. And instead of looking up at the fireworks, my eyes are on the guy behind me yanking his doodle. Patriot or pervert? You decide.

I miss the days when you could set off your own stuff. Fireworks, like anything else that is fun is this country—smoking, drinking, abortions—are restricted and regulated. In some places you need a license or permit to carry fireworks. What’s next—assault rifles? OK, I know what you’re thinking: But, Dave, fireworks are dangerous, kids get hurt every year, blah blah blah. You’re right. Kids do get hurt. Dumb kids. Every Fourth, there’s a news story about some kid who stuffed an M-80 up his butt and blew his balls off. The reporter always calls it a tragedy. The only tragedy is that his buddies didn’t videotape it. You throw something like that on the Internet and the guy’s a superstar. Move over, fat Star Wars kid.

I think fireworks are a great learning tool. First off, in some states they’re illegal, so kids can practice lying to their parents, which will help them later when they’re buying booze and porn. And they’re good exercise— you never run faster than when you’re being chased by bottle rockets. And most important, there’s a war on. We can’t send kids into combat if the scariest thing they’ve ever done is light a sparkler. There is nothing lamer than a sparkler. A flashlight is more dangerous. I hate sparklers. When I hold one I feel like the Special Olympics torch boy.

That reminds me, I have a date. Gotta run. So, happy Fourth of July. Be free or die.