"I ain't heard no fat lady!" "Forget about the fat lady. You're obsessed with fat lady!"

I have a friend that works in the emergency room at The Hospital, and it is there he has met some of the stupidest people to result from a one night stand. By far, the stupidest individuals all have stories that begin the same way:

"So, there we were, lighting off our own fireworks..."

That being said:

So, there we were, lighting off our own fireworks...

It had already been an eventful day on South Lindstrom Lake. Katie Moen had graciously welcomed a handful us into her cabin with open arms, provided that our arms contained either beer or grindage for us to munch. The boat had died in the middle of the lake, not once, but twice, both stallings resulting from an attempt to visit a place called The Eagle's Nest (Which, much to my disappointment, anticlimactically turned out to be an actual eagle's nest, and not the lone lake club I had envisioned) and both stallings resulting in two towings from various other better boats.

The sun had set when the second towing landed us back at Moen Manor, where upon reaching dry land once more, we saw that Terry Moen, the loving patriarch that he was*, had hopped the border and returned with many illegal fireworks for us to make merry with.

And make merry we did, shooting off various rockets, cannons, and twirlies from the end of the Moen Dock. I, and another cohort called Travis (With our lovely assistant Hippie Girlfriend), fancied ourselves pyrotechnic experts, hastily concocting daring new combinations to dazzle the eye and illuminate the brain.

Some banged. Some whistled. Some fizzled. Some inspired awe in the form of "Oooooh!"

For our grand finale, Terry Moen hauled out this Big Honking MF-er, which if that isn't the brand name, it should be. Roughly the size of two beer cases, the box promised us three minutes of 220 rounds of miniature bombs.

On the surface of this kinda' death trap was the helpful advice "Aim Away From Crowds" along with a series of arrows indicating the direction in which the explosives would make their exit.

We thought.

Imagine, if you will, a box of Captain Crunch. The arrows pointed in such a direction that led us to believe the fireworks would emerge from the end that you pour the cereal out of. Travis carefully built a base, and we aimed the America-themed fun out over the lake.

What Josh and Travis didn't know, perhaps due to their over zealous approach or one of the ten beers that preceded this event**, was that they weren't about to shoot out of the cereal pouring end. They were about to tear through the Captain's face.

Our careful attempts to avoid the crowd had, in fact, aimed America's Birthday directly at the small group of spectators, which included an already significantly tweaking Chihuahua. I want to be very clear about this part, Travis aimed everything, I just lit the fuse. I don't know what that would've done for me in court, but there you go.

Our group was split into two, half on a pontoon, half on the hill by the lake. As soon as I let the fuse, with a stick of incense no less, those parked on the pontoon witnessed a grand finale they've never seen, and never will again.

The all-too-short fuse exploded, knocking me back, and mini-rockets launched past my face in various neon colors.

I tackled down Hippie Girlfriend, threw myself on-top of her, and covered us both in a towel. I'm not sure what the towel was meant to accomplish. It was either because I thought we were already on fire, or this was that one useless towel they accidentally made out of steel.

The scene played out like every way movie or CNN footage you've ever seen. Running, screaming, shielding with various objects both useful and not, whilst fire ricocheted off of trees and houses, and the Chihuahua just ran in a continuous circle, convinced I was trying to kill it.***

Some took off running faster than they ever have up the hill. Trouble was, the fireworks were labeled, and they continued to shoot up, essentially chasing those trying to make their escape.

Hippie Girlfriend and I were safe, and got to gaze into the case of beer that was now a midget with a powerful rocket launcher just how much freedom wasn't free.

220 rounds.

Three minutes.

I was never more scared than I was during those three minutes.

I was never happier than I was when I realized it was done.

After a quick of survey of checking to make sure everyone was still alive and not blowed up, never was there more THAT! WAS! AWESOME!

Those on the pontoon were laughing hysterically, emitting genuine concern every three or four laughs. They beat themselves for not taping the incident, because if they did, you'd be reading the king of YouTube's blog, and we'd all probably be booked on the Today show later this week.

Years of watching fireworks at the Coon Rapids carnival and making the same stupid "Ladies and gentlemen, we're being fired upon" joke when a plane would pass by and finally bitten me square in the ass and grazed my skull.

And it was the best Fourth of July ever.

Twelve days until Neil.

*Aside from thinking my name was Mitch even though he's clearly known me for years.
**Which my friend who works in the emergency room describes as 'job security'
*** Subconciously, I may have been. I'm still pretty pissed about this.