These fireworks have crossed three state lines in the back of a wood-paneled station wagon, because there’s no way you’re getting shown up by Jed Miller again. We’re talking strawberry strobes, blueberry bursts, and sweet basil flares, synchronized to AC/DC and the swoons of cul de sac housewives. After the chocolate ice cream melted and the headlight-illuminated volleyball winds down, you strike your match and the whole pile goes up in a shimmering blaze of glory.
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