Happy Independence Day, folks. Or rather, ‘Happy-Wear-Your-USA-Flag-Bikini Day.’ Heaven forbid if you get cursed and cussed out for not wearin’ an Old Navy USA Flag shirt. Hardly anyone remembers what this day means or what it represents. But since it’s a day off from the weekly work grind, folks sure do remember it then. A bunch of mindless drones.
I suppose it’s not their fault, entirely. We’ve been continually gettin’ more dumb with each generation, that is, the mass population. You get a few bright bulbs here and there, but it’s a small number compared to the majority.
I bet you’re wonderin’ “Bob, what are you doin’ with your 4th of July?” Well, bucko, lemme tell you all about it. I’m plannin’ on shootin’ a bunch of shit off. Y’know, bein’ that asshole of a neighbor. That’s the goal anyway.
The day started off simple enough. No itches but a ton of anxiety. We were to have folks over and make it a big shindig. Truth be told, I just wanted to be left alone…or go out somewhere by myself. It is what it is, though.
So we had everyone over and gathered everyone up for a show off of who’s firework ego was greater. Then I remembered, I hate the Fourth of July. After gettin’ tired of who could fire off the bigger grade of booms, I thought it was time for my show.
I stood up and wandered over to the launcher and readied everythin’ up. I was gonna give them the show of a lifetime…and I didn’t care. Everyone was there, all eyes on dear old Bob. At least the kids were inside playin’ video games.
Well, I decided to take a few M-80s and string them together…for maximum boom and to take someone’s head off. Namely mine. I lit ’em and dropped ’em in the makeshift mortar launcher that Ted had made. Then I waited for the boom. Lemme tell ya, it was a hell of a rush. Y’know when you watch Mission Impossible and watchin’ that fuse go? Hearin’ it sizzle, waitin’ for the boom. Well, I made some ‘modifications’ to the fuses, because I knew damn well that someone would try to be the hero. Sure as shit, someone tried, but I got the final discharge off. As bad as that sounds, it’s not as bad as the next bit. When I say I got the final discharge, I had my mouth open. So, you can imagine as soon as those suckers shot up, caught them in the mouth and POP goes, Bob.
When the day reset, the itch had begun, and I figured I’d start with the fireworks show…seein’ what other fun ways I could off myself.
So I went with a fistful of M-80s…that was plenty painful. At least no one tried to be a hero that go around. Next up was a bunch of firecrackers…swallowed them whole. That was a spicy meatball; I’ll tell ya. I know, you’re probably thinkin’ “Bob, that’s impossible.” No, no it’s not. It’s very possible, and I do not recommend tryin’ it. I ended up losin’ my hand on top of gettin’ my insides tore the fuck up.
Those were the fun ones for that part of the day. The others were more like the grillin’ aspect.
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. Do not try this at home.
Photo by Patrik Tschudin. Patrik Tschudin has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.