I went to see some fireworks yesterday. I didn't really want to, some family-related outing, you see. I figure I've fulfilled my obligation to them for at least a month. Anyhow, I couldn't help but notice people actually applauded after a bunch of especially air quality reducing sparkle bombs went off (I'll call them whatever I want). Eh? Did I miss something? The people setting them off cannot hear you. They are several miles away, they are not right next to you, seeking your encouragement. It's almost like applauding after seeing a movie in a theatre, which I am sad to say, I have also seen people do. Even worse, it was 1998 Godzilla, if I remember correctly. I doubt firework people would want you clapping for them, anyway. It's their job to light these things and send them off without killing anyone. They get payed for this. They don't care whether you like it or not. I know the idiot kids setting of those gundam firecrackers every plorking night outside my house don't care what I think. Even the applause, though, does not bother me as much as the morons who insist on shouting "it's the finale!" The grand finale! after every time more than five explode at once. Good rold, you'd think after the third or fourth time they'd catch on, but they never do. I'd like to see one of them actually try and spell "finale," just for fun.

Stupid twits aside (assuming there's some other kind), at least the explosions were pretty. Mmmm. Not like those things the afore mentioned idiot kids are always shooting about. All those do are fly briefly into the air and make a noise disproportionately loud in comparison to the size of the visual result, which I'm telling you isn't too spectacular. Paying likely a great deal of money (for an idiot kid, anyway) to get illegal party favors, and for what? Where's the fun in doing this? I could understand if they were firing bottle-rockets at persons, places, or things, but they aren't. Just up. Whee... Maybe they like the smell, or something. Oh well, at least they're not setting the marsh on fire. Don't get me started on the marsh...

I realize this isn't much, that it doesn't deserve a whole page. However, as you can plainly see, there is more, so quit complaining.

This year there were even more bonfire legends with their own fireworks, because it would seem such things are legal now. Yesh, it turns out it was a crime to have them before. Oikes. I would've loved to have some of those nuts locked up, but now it's too late. Hey kids, just because you're no longer defying "the man" by having fireworks, doesn't mean the fun is gone. Connecticut made sure that the legal fireworks cost just as much and looked just as cheap and unimpressive as the forbidden variety. But I feel I should warn the dopes on the beach that none of those people who stepped out onto their hurricane-bait porches last night were there to see you or your wuss-wockets.

Later, that night... (the one two years ago, I mean)

A buzzing, that's what I heard. I could not determine from where it was coming, but it did not hold my interest for long, as I suddenly felt some kind of a pain, above my left leg. It wasn't especially painful, I can only describe it as like being stabbed with a toothpick. I assumed it had something to do with the large plants I had just walked past, because... you know, plants. That's what they do. I made an attempt to pull the object out of my skin, but I could not find where it was. Eventually, I realized the assistance of my eyes was necessary, so I looked down, and there, on my shirt, was a bee. what a dork

Yes, a bee.

It was not long before I linked the buzzing, the pain, and the bee together. While I knew very well that I could not undo the sting, I wanted to do everything in my power to make sure that it didn't happen again. That's a funny thing about humans, we tend to get very paranoid when it comes to things like this. Just think, I possess literally thousands of times more power than this silly yellow flying ant; I could kill it with very little effort, and yet... I fear the sting. Why? Some people have bee-sting allergies, but although I'm not one of them, come on, man. It's a sting! One way of thinking about it is, killing a single bee is like stinging the colony once. If a bee stings you twice, whether it lives or not, it's still won. You lost to the bee. Ha ha! Anyway, I was surprised that the bee was still moving, since I'd read... somewhere, that this kind of bee kills itself in the stinging process. So, to avoid "losing," I tried brushing against the corner of some garage thing (what, you want me to touch it?! It's a BEE, for rice cake!), but this did not seperate the bee from my clothing. The bee began to climb up, up my torso-covering-garment, I hate the word torso. I can't believe I not only used it, but in reference to me. Depressing and I began to panic. being stung above my left leg is one thing, but up further, the fat-protection-layer is diminished so the pain lasts longer. I did not fear the bee going down, as it would not have been possible for a bee to sting through the pants I was wearing. I assume I must have been nude before, as I'm quite sure I just read something about being stung on a leg. I don't remember writing or experiencing this at all. I eventually ran out of options and used my right hand to forcibly remove the bee from its position, sending it falling to the grass below. Despite the fact that I would not survive such a proportionately distanced downward journey, I knew the bee still lived, and might someday return if I didn't end it's reign of terror right then and there. I did the only thing I could do, bringing forward my... left foot, nice recollection of the rights and lefts, I must say I think it was, and stepping on the poor thing (I don't feel much remorse for insects, likely going back to that "stinging the colony" mindset mentioned earlier, but that's still more than most people). After that, I did the most surprising thing of all. After unstepping, I looked, I looked... TO SEE IF IT WAS STILL ALIVE.* Surely you've stepped on an ant or similar creature before. They have "ways" of surviving. I couldn't tell if it was alive or dead, so I retreated. I made my escape, though unlike most bee-sting stories, I hadn't learned anything. I had not harassed this bee. I know better than that. This bee had obviously come looking for trouble. The bees are getting too bold these days. I fear for the future.

The sting itself though, my "battle scar," was not as bad as I'd remembered my last sting being. Sure, it hurt like the salinger, but only for about two minutes. At least I was wearing shoes. My sister, who apparently stepped on a bee, had not the sense to do as I did, and hence suffered a great deal more pain than I, or at least that's what I gathered from the screams.

*It turns out silly behavior like this is a trait of mine. A number of weeks ago, less than twenty, the cable service here had not been paid for, and had been disconnected. I saw the set was off, and went to turn it on, and was informed of what I told you in the previous sentence-like-structure. so you know what I did? I turned on the television set. Because I guess I'd forgotten what static looked like since the last time someone neglected to pay the bill. Or maybe "well, they could have changed their mind and turned it back on!" Sure. Even when you *pay,* it takes them three days to do that. Only a second to turn it off, though, somehow. As if to turn it off is to throw it out a seventy-third story window, and switch it back on is to drag it up 73 flights of stairs. So the cable is disconnected, and I didn't know it. As if anything less than total absense of channels could have made one of the dopes I'm related to turn it off. Whatever time of day it is, someone will be able to find Shawshank Redemption or Groundhog Day and watch it through to the end. Most recently Meet the Parents was on (after the cable had been restored, I assume). Apparently Robert DeNiro was in it, and YueEthAy channel was going to air a tribute to That Man. The best time to devote a show to someone is after showing twenty-four hours of that person, a moron has decided. You'll never guess what it starts with. That's right ("you'll never guess" is an ancient phrase that means "you'll guess"), clips from Robert DeNiro movies. The same ones that had just been on. Ugh. This tribute is necessary, because I guess there's a big problem with people not saying enough good things about Robert DeNiro. He's just so underappreciated. It makes one wonder why there's never been a tribute to Bobcat Goldthwaite. So anyway the following day I once again left my room (a mistake) and Meet the Parents was on again. Why? They've already been met. I'm pretty sure, had I the skill to have watched it, I would've met them within the first five minutes. So we don't even need to see the whole thing once, let alone twice. I guess this was true, because I emerged again the next day, and Meet the Parents was on a third time. I foolishly asked if the channel had been changed once in the past three days. I was informed that this was, quote, "none of your (mine) business." Hopefully this information will be de-classified in a few years, as I would like to know.

Hey me from the future, this page was supposed to have a central topic, that being what I did on the evening of July second, two-thousand-and-one. Meet the Parents isn't related, and in fact hasn't even been made yet. I don't give a damn what you have to say about it. You hear that? Damn. Damn damn damn. Look at me, I'm so bad! I type the word damn! And who do you think you are removing the link to the Mayonnaise Conspiracy? I know you have it, just like you've had this one, quit pretending you don't.

If not for me, no one would know you even made this page. Stop whining.

It's hardly my page anymore, is it? It looks like someone poured cartoonily extra-yellow urine all over half the words. And why are you always trying to distance yourself from me? If anything, I should be distancing myself from you. Don't make me set you up the bomb! (ha ha)

Watch what you say. You'll be me someday, so any negative comments you have will apply to you as well.

Not if I use this time machine and go forward or backward enough that the ensuing events will make me into a me different from you! You are clearly the Weakest Link! Goodbye!

That's not a time machine. It's a walk-in wood chipper. Ewww. Oh well, I guess it's too late now. I'll just end the page here, and go take a shower.