Dear Mouth-Breathing, Monosynaptic Dullard,
In the future, when engaging in impromptu displays of festive amateur pyrotechnics, I would suggest that you do not – repeat, DO NOT! – hold said pyrotechnics in your hand while lighting the fuse.
Instead, since you are still of breeding age, I suggest that you clamp the pyrotechnic device in question between your thighs while lighting it, preferably as close to your wedding tackle as possible.
That way, when the occasional one prematurely detonates, as such devices are wont to do, the resulting explosion should effectively chlorinate your particular genetic algae from the gene pool. As it is, you should consider yourself extremely fortunate in that you still have full use of your hands, so that in the future you may still use them to scratch your ass, roll an occasional blunt, or flash gang signs.
I knew you were a douchebag the moment I arrived on scene to find a white boy bedecked in a New Year’s Eve ensemble apparently purchased off the clearance rack at Huggy Bear’s House of Style and Flapjack Emporium. I knew you were an idiot when you told me a firecracker had gone off in your hand.
But the fact that you called an ambulance for a burn that turned out to be no more than a couple of blisters the size of a quarter, marks you as a wuss of the first order. In fact, if wusses congregated in public and elected their leader, you might well qualify to be the Grand Exalted Poobah of the Fraternal Order of Dickless Wimps.
For July4th, I think I’ll send my 7-year-old daughter over to your house with a box of sparklers and have her tell you, “Harden the f*ck up, dude.”
