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This weekend should be a wild one, full of drunkenness, bad decisions, and quite possibly some blown off body parts.  My brother is already trying to get me to take a ride down to Tennessee once he gets off this afternoon to get some "more powerful" fireworks than the ones we can get just right across the river in Indiana.  And though that sounds sweet to me, it also sounds like a good way to get my ass locked up, because when alcohol, fireworks, and I mix, there is nothing, and no one safe in my path.

 

Every year for as long as I can remember, a bunch of us would pile up in someone's car, take a ride across the bridge, and stock up on an arsenal of fireworks.  Bottle rockets and roman candles are mainly what we're going for, but if we want to break out the big dogs, then we'll go to the extreme and purchase some mortar shells.  Once back in town, long after the sun has faded for the evening, that's when it goes down, and it's time for a bottle rocket war.  Kids are running in all directions with pursuant flames and explosions at their heels, and bottle rockets fly like tracer bullets in the summer night's sky around the heads of all of us, while whole packs of firecrackers explode loudly, and with great ferocity about our midsections and feet.  The colorful balls of flames shot from roman candles sizzle and crackle on our clothing, they burn like a son of a bitch, and will eat thru your clothing like a damn goat can do thru a tin can.  Black cats are used to cause close proximity damage, and generally an entire pack is lit and thrown on you when you were least expecting it, or in hiding and reloading your own arsenal.  It must be a man thing, a retarded man thing I might add, but so damn fun, and what better story is there to be told then one of how you received a war wound during a bottle rocket war?

Be safe out there this weekend, though we won't, and be smart about where you aim your fireworks, because on the other side of town somewhere, disguised behind cheap sunglasses so that my eyes won't get blown out of my skull, I'll be oblivious to what I wrote earlier in the week about safety.  Also, as a side note, and this coming from prior year's games, even take precaution while talking to a female on the sidelines, because the last kid that did that got a full pack of lit firecrackers packed into his pocket while trying to spit game.  That will not only kill your macking skills with the girl, but it will also leave a rowdy hole in both your pants pocket and underwear alike.  Good tidings to you, and hope I don't see you in the emergency room this coming Forth of July.

Photo courtesy of Damian Gerlach

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About Damian Gerlach

Born and raised locally here in the Germantown neighborhood of Louisville, Kentucky. I have lived and frequented in both the Highlands and Germantown areas for the past ten years while completing my undergraduate work in communication, and graduate work in business communication from Spalding University. After the completion of both of these degrees, the most recent during the summer of 2007, I began working as a sales consultant for a large telecommunications company, as well as for a few local colleges. In 2008 I self-published my first book, "Always Coming Back," and my second late summer 2009, entitled "Bent."

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