Burn, Baby, Burn.

Boys and fire. It's a combination that we can all attest to being extremely terrified of. I am never surprised to find out that the garage fire I read about in the paper was started by a gaggle of 10 year olds with one match and a pile of dry leaves. What does surprise me it that growing up our house never burned to ashes. My brother was and still is obsessed with fire. I remember going camping and watching him light random sticks in the fire, pull them out, and run around like a banshee. As an adult, he insists on starting any fire with a gallon of magic juice aka gasoline and I really think it's to make a giant safety hazard out of a fairly mundane camp out. For our Fourth of July celebration this year he was allowed to light some fireworks after consuming enough beer to knock out horse and it was quite a spectacular show. Him lighting a firework or three then taking a giant leap over them as they started spraying fire into the air and into his crotch. Only fire could make a man forget how important his dick and balls are to his manhood. I am pretty sure his only care in the world was whether or not we had enough ammunition for a couple hours of high jumps. And so it goes that I get to look forward to finding my son in our garage a few years down the road hunched over a pile of paper, lighter in one hand, and a grin on his face just ready to leave us homeless. And I have no doubt my brother will be right beside him.