Where my nose begins.
To a certain guy who griped at me last night:
Look, I'm on your side about you getting to express your joy at the freedoms we enjoy, on Independence Day. I want you to get to go out and do it. But when you moved into a neighborhood that is cheek-and-jowl enough to actually have a Home Owner's Association, you knew what you were getting into.
Don't be surprised when the same cop who gave you a warning about firing off aerial fireworks in your neighborhood last year decides to write you a ticket for conducting random probability arson experiments this year.
The county is afire with mysterious fires and no one to stand up and take responsibility for them. Fine. But in the moderately-heavily populated area you're in, your finely-crafted Chinese or Mexican firework that arcs over the fence to fizzle on someone's roof rather than pop with celebration 100 feet over your yard can mean that your neighbor has to run the risk of losing everything he has. I'm sure YOU're the one who will stand up and say "Oh, my bad. Lemme pick up that insurance deductible for you."
My favorite comment was "The government gives us the tools to celebrate, but won't let us use them."
Huh? I know that my government is redistributing the wealth at mighty high speed, but where, exactly, does one get in on this fireworks distribution program? And how does that work, exactly? Are there race-based initiatives? If so, where do whistling chasers and Black Cats fall in this program?
I'll confess to being dumbfounded by this twisted logic, and I withdrew before I had trouble finding my way to my car from that rabbit hole.