Why I Hate the Fourth of July
Every July Fourth holiday finds me holed up in my house, windows shut tight, blinds down and TV blaring as I try to keep three dogs from going into cardiac arrest as my neighborhood erupts with explosions, rockets and small-arms fire.
See, for some reason, people in Miami believe it’s a patriotic thing to walk outside and unload a clip heavenward. I guess they must have skipped physics class the day gravity was discussed. At least every other year in South Florida, some poor schmuck gets hit by a falling bullet while watching a fireworks show or walking the dog.
In my opinion, that’s a good reason to keep a roof and a ceiling between oneself and the sky on July 4.
