Welp, it’s Monday, July 6th, and Independence Day went off without a hitch if you’re not counting the statistically high number of Philadelphians too stupid not to blow up/off body parts with fireworks. I had to listen to a lot of people bitching about not being able to buy or use enough gunpowder-packed wads of explosive happiness because of ‘ridiculous fireworks laws’, but since all of them were, without fail, overweight, jobless men in stained wife-beaters with no shoes and their fifth beer in one hand, I cannot sympathise with their plight. In fact, I have a little tidbit of information to share with those fine fellows:

NOBODY WANTS YOU TO HAVE ACCESS TO FIREWORKS BECAUSE YOU’RE A CLASS OF MENTALLY HANDICAPPED IMBECILES. ALSO, YOU SMELL FUNNY, WASH YOUR FUCKING SHIRT.

See, there’s an interesting slew of laws up here in the tri-state area that are fully intended to confuse the bejeezes out of the casual fireworks purchaser and hopefully stop your everyday Jeb and Bub from maiming the rest of us in their valiant quest for their very own Darwin awards.

In Pennsylvania and Maryland, it’s legal to sell fireworks to non-residents only. Pennsylvanians cannot buy fireworks in Pennsylvania, Marylanders cannot buy fireworks in Maryland. However—stick with me kids, it only gets fun from here on out—Pennsylvanians can buy fireworks in Maryland, and Marylanders can buy fireworks in Pennsylvania. Okay, now toss in a dash of Delaware, because residents of Delaware can’t buy fireworks in their home state either, but can still get them in Maryland and Pennsylvania.

It’s basically one big, multi-state swinger party, with the exception of New Jersey, who isn’t invited. New Jersey is the STD-ridden drunk whose been married a dozen times, slept with everybody at the party already—twice—and the only way I can take this horrible analogy any further is to get into mentionings of gynocology so I’ll stop there. Casual fireworks purchase is completely illegal in New Jersey, you can’t buy, sell, or set them off without a permit, and if you’re crossing into the Garden State within ten days of Independence Day you have a 75% chance of being strip-searched with a speculum to make sure you don’t have a smuggled roman candle shoved up your hoo-ha.

Yes, I did go there even though I said I wouldn’t. I lied.

Most of us don’t mind these laws because we’re not setting off minor explosives in our backyards or out in the street, we just go and watch the official city fireworks displays like intelligent creatures who have a functioning survival instinct. Not Jeb and Bub though, oh no. Jeb and Bub are a special breed of celebrant. Jeb and Bub have to have a metric shit ton of firepower to light the fuse to, which they will inevitably do out on the street without warning neighbors, usually after a case of beer each. Unfortunately, Jeb and Bub rarely take themselves out of the gene pool, and it’s the rest of us who have to worry about life and limb and pray they don’t burn down our houses.

My house is still standing though, and most of my neighbors are still alive, and onward we tromp through life until the next holiday requiring the mixing of alcohol and incendiary devices.

And now, some song recommendations, just to pretend I remembered before now that this was a music blog:

- Daughtry: No Surprise
- Katy Perry: Waking Up In Vegas
- Pink: Don’t Leave Me

Stay golden, bitches.
- Zap