The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal – Episode 4 – Truckin’ [Part 3]

This time, Bob takes us on a real cliffhanger of an adventure.

He also says “Happy Father’s Day.” He hates Hallmark holidays.

So I’ve hugged a few trees, kissed a few telephone poles, and rammed a brick wall. I bet you’re wonderin’ “Bob, what the hell is wrong with you? Why all the self-hate, loathin’, and bein’ a menace to society.” Well, Jack, if one of you’s name is Jack…and it probably is, if I wanted to sound like a fuckin’ broken record, I’d record my all this, leave it playin’ on loop for eternity. It’d make those 10 or 100 hours of Epic Sax Guy look like nothin’. Not that I have anythin’ against Epic Sax Guy, it’s just you can only take so much until your head pops. As for bein’ a menace to society, just look at your election and the what the news outlets want to keep you distracted from. There’s a whole lot more menacin’ out there than your dear old Bob.

Speakin’ of pops, I know today’s a magical day for all those dads out there. Whether they’re a grandad, pop, or even one to be. Ah, I gotta say, I could care less for the over glorified Hallmark shitfest of a holiday. It’s lost its meanin’ to us all. And for all those who can’t share the day because they’re dead, overseas, whatever. I am sorry for your loss, but you’ll have to turn to someone else. While I can spend it with my kids, I know that I am actually not spendin’ it with my kids. You know what I mean? But I suppose in the spirit of being where the fuck ever, happy father’s day to all you mother fuckers. Congrats. You got a lady knocked up, had ’em pop out a few kids. Alright, alright, I’m just gonna move along here instead of bein’ a sourpuss.

So, on one of my many adventures of findin’ out the best way to die via motor vehicle, I think probably one of the more sightseein’, or rather exotic, was drivin’ off a cliff. Great stuff, 10 out of 10, would do it again. In fact, I did do it again, a few times in fact. It’s like a rollercoaster, and that gut in your mouth feelin’. You’re expectin’ to have that sudden jerk motion pullin’ you, but you never do. Instead, you plummet X amounts of feet to your death. You get tossed around like a dummy (pun intended) that missed the fuckin’ crash wall and is just flailin’ their arms about like some crazed lunatic. Meanwhile, while you’re flailin’ around like said lunatic, you insides are gettin’ crushed by the sheer force, and no matter how fuckin’ soft you think your seats are, your ass is broken. Your jello brain is soup…a bloody soup at that…while your insides are now a hefty, hearty sized stew that’s literally stewing…in you…you’re an oversized ziplock container of man stew.

Now, you’d be lucky if maybe on one those great forceful jerks that would knock you out, so you don’t get the joy of slowly dyin’. That’s a luxury, though. It’s all about chance at that point really. Each thud you’re pullin’ off the top of the deck hopin’ by that time you’ll just pass the fuck out. Nevermind that you potentially could burst into flames, get barbecued and (or) start a fire that burns a bit of acreage of the forest. Ah, the shit that happens.

There was another idea while on my many plummets down the side of…whatever mountain it was. You always wanted to fly like Superman. Take to the skies, be a hero. Well, that’s where you go drivin’ with your seatbelt off. Hell, you can even plant a heavy ass rock, cinder block, whatever, on the accelerator, cling to the roof, let go…and just fly.

Now, you’re in for a real treat here, folks. Because you’re not gonna get tossed about while inside a metal can anymore. Oh no, you’re going to be kissin’ a lot of things with your mouth and your ass. And while you’re kissin’ every boulder, rock, shrub, tree, and God knows what else on your trip down the mountain, you’re going to be hopin’ that you stayed in that car. Granted, some trees wouldn’t give, and you could just splatter against them. The problem is that when you finally land, you might still be alive. Then a hungry wild animal that loves them some fresh meat come wanderin’ by. Circle of Life I suppose.

So there you have it. Drivin’ off cliffs by dear old Bob.

I guess I’ll throw in the honorable mention of when I was going to drive off a cliff, I had a change of heart—was weird really. I skidded on the pavement for a good distance, since you know, I wanted to ‘go the distance’ when I went off the side of the cliff. Well, I got acquainted with the pavement, and she ground me down to bits and pieces, chunks and a long ass red streak on the highway. I wouldn’t recommend kissin’ the curb either, folks.

THE CHRONICLES OF BOB: THE CHRONIC SUICIDAL IS AN ONGOING WRITING PROJECT BY ROBERT J. S. T. MCCARTNEY, HERE AT A.B. NORMAL PUBLISHING.
THIS ONGOING STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION.

Author: Sincados

Writer, gamer, foodie, brew enthusiast, and awesome dad. Also likes to make explosions...but not in any particular order.

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