The One With the Fourth of July

Don't think me un-American when I say this, because I certainly don't mean it this way, but I hate the Fourth of July. I certainly don't hate what it signifies, but I hate the holiday that it's become. How does blowing up things and lighting up the sky with color celebrate our independence? Hey, we have this whole country now -- let's catch it on fire. Seriously, does it seem like a good idea to light off a bunch of explosives in a place where the houses are stacked ontop of each other and it never rains? No.

Anyone who loves the Fourth of July, I've decided, didn't grow up white trash, or still is white trash and doesn't realize it. If I started listing the number of things that caught on fire when I was growing up, you'd realize just how white trash I was. But I don't like to remind people that I grew up with red on my neck, so I'll stop talking about it.

Now, I have a new reason to hate it -- my dogs. Dogs don't understand what those loud noises are. They don't understand that those noises aren't attacking our house. It freaks Muggsy out. I spent the evening locked in my room, watching the Cosby Show and feeding Muggsy a treat log. It went really well until about the fourth time that Ross came in complaining that he wanted to go to bed. So I abandoned the food, turned off the television and went to bed with him, lying awake just in case. I guess as you can see, I had to abandon that strategy as well. The sound of the fireworks is getting closer. I'm still up at 11 on a work night, reassuring Muggsy that those loud noises aren't hurting anyone except me tomorrow morning. I hope they stop soon...