Torched Tights for Thunder Thighs

We've celebrated New Year's Eve together since the early 1900s. 

At first, it was in a tall apartment building across the street from a huge hospital in the city. Later, it was in a giant cul-de-sac under a four-story tent of lights strung from mailboxes. Nowadays, it's at one house, specifically one backyard where a horde of people come together to pray to a giant Baby Jesus statue (*cough*cult*cough*), eat from a roasted pig, drink too many different types of alcohol, and countdown the seconds til we set off fireworks where the altar had been standing two hours beforehand.
Usually, we're pretty good at this; we're fun, but not trashy. We're loud, but everyone in Miami is louder. And we're an army of Asian nurses so you'd think we'd adhere to actual safety rules... but we don't. You'd also think that we'd learn our lesson from last year's debacle... where someone lit a flare...knocked it over...and, instead of exploding in the air safely and beautifully, blew up like a mine on the ground resulting in a hole in my dad's shoe, a few burned patches of skin and one very pretty dress with a nice scorch mark.
This year, as one man held up one fuse, another one uttered the igniting words: "Just light it...and run."
...What the words should have been were, "Just light it...drop it in the tube...and then run." As a result, a firework that would've shine pretty, gold and red in the sky had it been dropped in said tube, instead exploded on the surface of the tiled backyard.
As a result, women screamed, men laughed, and poor Thunder Thighs' tights got torched. 
Happy New Year folks!