As you all know, tomorrow is the 4th of July, which can only mean one thing: EXPLOSIONS! I decided to get in on the festivities and hop a riverboat to PA to buy some illegal fireworks.
I stopped by The Rusty Rudder, a dingy watering hole where I knew I would find the master boatman, Ferry Bear. After some finagling, he agreed to get me across.
Once there, I walked into the fireworks store and asked for a “Fort Knox,” a “Dazzling Diamond Fountain,” and a “Flash ‘n Bash” before the guy behind the counter said, “Whoa there Chester. You’re a bear! I can’t sell fireworks to a bear. I don’t have that kind of license!”
Demoralized, I sauntered out to the parking lot where I lay despondent on the curb. Had everyone but me forgotten the true meaning of July 4th? The inalienable right to blow shit up?
NO! Just as I was about to give up all hope, an old drunk stumbled past. I accosted him, and without hesitation, he agreed to buy me my fireworks.
With a heart full of love and arms full of explosives, I crossed the Delaware to New Jersey, just as George Washington had done 230-and-a-half years earlier.
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