“When I was just a little boy, I asked my mother what will I be.”
She told me that if I played around with fireworks I’d die horribly, or at least get substantial scarring. It seems mothers don’t say that nowadays. Its not even Bonfire night yet and the local idiots have already began the traditional appendage removal ceremonies. The hospital should put them to the back of the queue, and if there isn’t a queue, they should have to sit in agony for at least 20mins anyway, to learn their lesson.
Their are laws against the use of explosives, in public or whatever, so how come its fine once a year just cos a few hundreds years ago a dumb Catholic got drunk with some of his chums and thought it would be cool to blow up the King.
Why the hell should I celebrate the brutal death of a religious nut by blowing my friends and family up into tiny pieces. Have fun yourselves tho, don’t let me stop you. Just make sure you take a torch tho, it’ll come in handy when you have to search the garden for your Uncle Tom’s missing fingers he blew off demonstrating the illegally imported iraqi fireworks he got off some guy he met in the pub with the Irish accent, who mubled something about “finally getting our own back”
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