Ringin’ her cowbell
Rung on June 28, 2026.
So that was two questions. So sue me. I put both questions from my mind. I had bigger, badder, firecrackier things to concern myself with now: Fourth of July was upon me! And not just any Fourth of July, but the 250th one!
My soft, squishy, big little redheaded huzzey-muffet warned me in no uncertain terms: If I play with fireworks this year and blow any fingers off, she will not sew them back on for me. I responded—in very uncertain terms—with a stream of squeaking and babbling befitting a drunken baboon. That earned me a glare that left me certain—not the least bit uncertain—that I wouldn’t be ringin’ her cowbell for a week. I slunk forlornly into my attic mancave to contemplate my predicament.
Predicament fully contemplated, I emerged a new man: I would never touch a firecracker again. If that’s what it took to please my cornfed cutie, I would do it. But now I had an attic full of ’em—about 368,000,000 of ’em, to be imprecise—and nothing to do with ’em. What to do, what to do with ’em?
I tried to sell them online, but a pile of fireworks rivalling a small fission bomb is against Facebook’s terms of service. I thought about dumping them in the forest, but then I remembered that crater I had created once. I tried to give them to the gnomes, but the gnomes stopped existing again. What to do, what to do with ’em?