A few years ago, the Georgia fireworks regulations were loosened up a tad, permitting the sale of certain types of fireworks here in the greater Atlanta metropolitan area. From the Code:
In a nutshell, it means that we can buy bullshit kiddie fireworks. Meh.
Anyone wanting more bang than that simply drives the ninety or so miles to Tennessee, where pretty much anything short of a 25 kiloton tactical nuclear warhead is legal. Assuming you don’t get stopped and searched after you re-enter Georgia, you can then set off Blowy-Up Shit to your heart’s content - or at least until the neighbors get sick of their dog throwing up from all of the bang-induced angst and decide to call the shamuses.
Fireworks regulations seem to be a lot like drunk driving laws. Enforcement is spotty, and there’s a societal tendency to Look the Other Way. In the case of fireworks, the potential damage to life, limb, and property, while significant, is way less than that of DUI... plus, fireworks are fun. (Except for the toad that Tommy, the sociopath who lives on the next street, demolished by shoving an M-80 up its ass.)
But I’m here to tell you, there really needs to be more regulation of fireworks. I’m not so much concerned that little Jimmy will blow two fingers off his right hand and be legally blind in one eye - think of it as the cost of doing business, there, Jimmy - but there are other, graver issues afoot.
Looka dis:
Good Gawd - the perverts have gotten into the business!
I know what you’re thinking. “Elisson, ya feckin’ eedjit - they don’t mean that kind of Golden Shower!”
Oh, yes they do. Because I also saw - and could not bring myself to photograph - the case underneath the one in the picture. It was a case full of...
Specifically Permitted: Sparklers up to 100 grams each; fountains (items that say “Emits Showers of Sparks” up to 200 grams total for multiple tube items or 75 grams for each individual tube; snakes, glow worms, snappers, party poppers.
Specifically Prohibited: Firecrackers, torpedoes, sky rockets, roman candles, bombs, and sparklers [presumably, those over 100 grams].
In a nutshell, it means that we can buy bullshit kiddie fireworks. Meh.
Anyone wanting more bang than that simply drives the ninety or so miles to Tennessee, where pretty much anything short of a 25 kiloton tactical nuclear warhead is legal. Assuming you don’t get stopped and searched after you re-enter Georgia, you can then set off Blowy-Up Shit to your heart’s content - or at least until the neighbors get sick of their dog throwing up from all of the bang-induced angst and decide to call the shamuses.
Fireworks regulations seem to be a lot like drunk driving laws. Enforcement is spotty, and there’s a societal tendency to Look the Other Way. In the case of fireworks, the potential damage to life, limb, and property, while significant, is way less than that of DUI... plus, fireworks are fun. (Except for the toad that Tommy, the sociopath who lives on the next street, demolished by shoving an M-80 up its ass.)
But I’m here to tell you, there really needs to be more regulation of fireworks. I’m not so much concerned that little Jimmy will blow two fingers off his right hand and be legally blind in one eye - think of it as the cost of doing business, there, Jimmy - but there are other, graver issues afoot.
Looka dis:
Good Gawd - the perverts have gotten into the business!
I know what you’re thinking. “Elisson, ya feckin’ eedjit - they don’t mean that kind of Golden Shower!”
Oh, yes they do. Because I also saw - and could not bring myself to photograph - the case underneath the one in the picture. It was a case full of...
...Cleveland Steamers!
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