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Driving My wife, kids and my employer don’t know it yet, but when I wake up Tuesday morning, the last place I’m going is work. Instead I’m driving twelve hours round-trip to one of the last bastions of American liberty, the South Carolina fireworks store.

While my home state of Virginia has decided I’m supposed to celebrate our nation’s independence by getting drunk and twirling around some lame-assed little sparkler, the brave leaders of South Carolina still believe in a little thing called freedom.

That’s why I plan to head down there and load up my trunk with as many firecrackers, roman candles, rockets and showpieces my wife’s credit card can handle.

When I get back to Virginia and start lighting these off, will I burn myself? Probably. Will I hold a firecracker between my teeth and light it? After trying that once, no, I will never do that again.

What I will do is pound a cooler full of cool, refreshing Miller Lite while clumsily launching rockets into both the sky and my neighbors’ houses. Hell, I might even go torment that old British guy who lives one block over.

God I love you 4th of July.

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