I love what it represents, but otherwise, don’t care much for the 4^th of July.

Instead of celebrating, I plan to hide.

This holiday should be an opportunity to truly appreciate freedom. The knuckleheads have ruined it.

Oh, the 4^th is about freedom all right. Freedom to get drunk. Freedom to blow a hand or a head off. Freedom to disturb the peace until 4AM.

Sounds like I have issues, doesn’t it? I do. They go all the way back to childhood.

Maybe it was when our chronically drunken neighbor, Ed (an allegedly full grown adult) sent my buddies and me scattering when he thought it would be fun to aim bottle rockets at us. A hillbilly who found his way to cosmopolitan Chicago, good ol’ Ed just roared with delight as we dodged the heat emerging from the rocket’s rectums.

Like many do today, Ed drove all the way to Tennessee to stock up on weapons of mass destruction. Tennessee is where they still, for whatever reason, sell simpletons the rockets, aerial bombs and fireworks necessary for a real patriot’s celebration.

I learned my lesson at age 16. Showing off for my girlfriend, I lit a real firecracker with the intention of throwing it harmlessly across the lawn. As I cocked my arm back, it exploded about 2 inches from my right ear, which rang for weeks afterward.

In my hometown of Beautiful Cooper City, we have our share of good old boys and they started early this year. These are the guys who spend their day breathing roofing tar, asphalt and lawnmower fumes. It’s hard, hot work I am sure, and that explains why they fragrantly violate the “shoes and shirts” ordinance every afternoon when the hit the Kwik Stop for their 12 pack.

They practiced on Memorial Day this year.

Our town has narrow, heavily tree lined streets. They are dark, and often cross over canals. Memorial night, I was headed home and crossed a charming little bridge and drove directly into a green cloud.

I slammed on the brakes because I couldn’t see a foot in front of me. Through the passenger window, I saw a cluster of- guess what? Adults!

I hit the button and rolled down that window, and said, “why don’t you mother&#@*%!* jackasses play in the back yard!?”. Sure enough, one of them was ready to fight. I was so angry, I almost wanted the trouble. However, as the silhouette of my antagonist got closer, I gulped. Had to be at least a 250-pounder.

Soon, I observed she was wearing one of those colorful K-Mart moo-moos. Maybe she was outside wearing her shower curtain. It was hard to tell.

As for my safety concerns, she said “go $%&* yourself!”.

I did the next best thing. I proceeded to the next intersection and turned the corner, where I called the police. I am sure they were out in a matter of hours to set them straight.

Last year (keeping in mind that I host a morning radio program which requires a 4:30AM wakeup), the last of the neighborhood bombs died down around 3AM.

I was in a very jolly mood for my show on the 5^th.

It could be worse, I suppose. There are some neighborhoods in where it’s customary to discharge handguns into an open sky. I guess they figure if they aim at the moon, the bullet will harmlessly leave the atmosphere.

A few years back one of those slugs passed through someone’s head on its return to earth and made some unfortunate patriot dead.

Every year, those of us in the media do the requisite warnings about fireworks. We sound like a bunch of squawking parrots, knowing all the while we are wasting our time. While I am certain that activity in our will remain relatively civil, many of your local physicians will be busy in hospitals re-upholstering the self maimed.

Some of our best hairdressers will be preparing to cut around singed hair the following Tuesday.

Last year, a local genius hosting a barbeque thought it would be fun to amuse his sodden guests by using his rear end as a launching pad for Roman candles (he probably worked for the space agency ASSA). We can assume Werner Von Lawn was well fueled, too. Face down in the grass, he pierced his jeans and held the missile in place with his cheek muscles. What he did not do, was anticipate the ferocious heat of the afterburner on the missile. His Levis on fire, he was rushed to the hospital after someone dumped a cooler full of ice water to douse the flames.

Not only did Werner have scorch marks on his jockeys, his moon has a permanent complexion similar to the one people will be aiming their pistols toward on America’s big night. Anything for a laugh.

One year I escaped to Chicago, returning on an evening flight the night of the 4^th. I had the brilliant idea that an 8PM flight would give me a chance to watch thousands of displays from above, then return to FLL after most of the local yocals were passed out for the night.

It almost worked. I missed most of the local idiocy, but learned that a cruising altitude of 35,000 feet does not provide a good vantage point for viewing the big displays. They looked like tiny flowers popping up from the ground below.

So, for those of you who find the 4^th a great day to survive, join me under the bed and between some pillows for all the fun. Pray for the Werner Von Lawns of the world, and that nobody sets your roof on fire.

And at some point, in and amongst the 6 packs and pyrotechnics, remember what the day is really all about. I know you will!