The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal 4th of July Special Presentation

Fireworks Photo by Patrik Tschudin.
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.

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.

* * *

So, I had my fun with goin’ out with a bang. I mentioned last time about grillin’ and well…let me just get ya up to speed.

The few guys I was havin’ over wanted to have a grill out. I figured, bah, why not. Wouldn’t be too bad. Then everyone was launchin’ their shit. Dogs were barkin’, cats were goin’ crazy, kids were screamin’, it was just a clusterfuck.

Well, I had about enough of it. Sure, people were havin’ a blast and a grand old time, but old Bob? Nah, he wanted no more of it. I had just put the burgers on the grill when it happened. It was automatic I’d say, but then again, it wasn’t the first time where I went “fuck it” and just did what I wanted to do.

So, Bob’s burgers are on the grill, wandered on over to the gas can in the garage. Walked out to the middle of the street and poured it all over me. Flicked my lighter and toasted myself to a Happy 4th of July. A lot of people just stood there in shock that they just saw their quiet neighbor torch himself in front of everyone. Some attempted to be quick on their feet, but dear old Bob had a backup plan for that. Ya see, I placed a few firecrackers in my pockets. Ya know, for that added pizzazz and flair. I gotta say, though, it wasn’t a great way to go. Self-barbecue. It’s not what it’s cracked up to be, and it hurts like hell. Eventually, though, your brain shuts you down, and well, your body gets well done. In my case, though, I was more…medium well.

I did a few different takes on the day. Each reset I was at a different friend’s place. Each time was a different way to go. M-80 in the gas tank of the car drivin’ into the creek, playin’ Foghat’s Slow Ride. Made a custom M-80 vest and wandered out back of my pal Sid’s place and lit up, like, well…the Fourth of July. At Jerry’s I fashioned a few makeshift cherry bombs and made it look like I was takin’ a sip of beer. Only to have my face and hand blown off. Then there was Terry’s place. We went into the woods, and I had decided that I would be a wicker man. So I outfitted myself with I don’t remember how many and kinds of fireworks…but when we got to the spot and unloaded. I told the guys I had a show for them. They all laughed and said “Alright, Bob. Can’t wait.” That night I lit myself up and gave them a show to remember.

The last time…was where I had no itch and where I wasn’t really in a care for offin’ myself. I decided to spend it with my family and enjoy the time. That night, my wife and I got to coupling. In the end, it was a good day. Hardly anyone shot their shit off. It was pretty nice. Later on, though, as it rolled into the 5th, I ended up dying in my sleep.

I know, I know, you’re thinkin’ “Bob, you didn’t kill yourself?” You’re right. I was amazed as well. Still, at least I shot my rocket off, and well, it ended up bein’ a happy endin’.

THE CHRONICLES OF BOB: THE CHRONIC SUICIDAL IS A WRITING PROJECT BY ROBERT J. S. T. MCCARTNEY, HERE AT A.B. NORMAL PUBLISHING.
THIS  STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

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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