Thousands of years ago, the ancient Egyptians, busy with their grain-storage pyramids, couldn’t have known the freedom that would someday visit this earth. The freedom to speak. The freedom to believe. The freedom to blow your goddamn hands off with high-power explosives launched into the night for hours and hours.
The signers of the Declaration of Independence had no political experience. This is true because I believe it to be, and if you don’t like it you can catch these Gifted Hands. But they knew one thing: Every man, woman, and child should be able to set off fireworks that resemble intercontinental ballistic missiles at 3 a.m. Every American is imbued with certain inalienable rights, and the most important is the right to aim fireworks purchased in nearby states at the side of a large building and just go to fucking town, guys.
The sound of freedom is not the sound of happy children, nor the sound of religious beliefs freely uttered. It is the “whump-BOOM” of fireworks launched into the air at a time when most people are probably trying to go to bed because they have work in the morning. No sensation is more representative of our freedoms as Americans than ignoring your neighbors’ very polite request to shut down the fireworks now because it’s now July 5 and basically not a holiday anymore, because fireworks, like time, wait for no man — particularly no man who is getting increasingly annoyed by what sounds like the shelling of his apartment building.
My mother believed in two things. One, that dishonest reporters who report on what I say as if what I say has anything to do with what I actually believe should be shot. And two, we should celebrate America’s birthday by lighting the candles of America’s birthday cake, which are made out of something I bought on the internet called a “Death Bomb.” It’s like the sensation of being hit by a car but if you could be hit by a car 50 feet in the air and then have it result in a gorgeous light display. You set that thing off at, like, 6 a.m., you really know what freedom means. Especially when someone calls the police and then they tell you you can’t light off illegal fireworks at 6 a.m., inhibiting said freedom.
I have had a lot of time to think lately. Sometimes, I think about how being vice-president wouldn’t actually be that great after all, or about how, really, being “vice” president is being the sin president, if you think about it. But most of the time, I think about freedom. I think about the freedom to take a Roman candle out of its package, light it, hide behind a nearby parked car, and see that thing soar into the air and produce a sound that makes dogs cower in fear. I think about the freedom to tie a bunch of sparklers together and light them inside a closed room just to see what happens, and the freedom to not call the fire department when the inevitable inferno begins, because "fire department" is just another term for "freedom limiter." And I think about lighting off a series of fireworks that do nothing but make incredibly loud sounds even though you were asked by your neighborhood association to stop reenacting the War of 1812 in your goddanged yard every year.
Freedom is our greatest natural resource, second only to the fingers of our children, the fingers they lost to fireworks incidents but probably didn’t need anyway. To preserve our freedoms, it is critical that we continue to blow off thousands of dollars' worth of fireworks in full fucking daylight weeks after the 4th of July, and all throughout the year. We must do it, for America. Now go light some shit.