Hoo-RAY! I survived another Fourth of July.
No, seriously. In the 90s, four out of 10 Fourths ended up with trips to the E.R.
It has been my favorite, yet a cursed holiday, starting in 1987 when the pyrotecnic in my hometown blew himself up. The bad luck continued four years later when I (accidentally) blew up my girlfriend. I learned what a great resource the Red Cross is for air-vacing people from Costa Rica and how top-notch the Burn Center in LA is.
About The Author
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