Having a truck is great. It’s the most practical thing for
getting stuff from one place to another, and that means anything. I just have
an S-10 which is a relatively small truck in the grand scheme of things, but
that little truck has had everything in its bed from a bunch of girls, to whole
trees, lawn mowers, go carts, flatbed trailers, dirt, rocks, dogs, tents, me,
and occasionally it has fun things in it too. One such time in particular would
have been the Fourth of July a few years ago. The bed of Rosebud (that’s my
little S-10’s name) was filled just about as full as you could get her with
boozes, fireworks, and gasoline.
So out to
Dr. Phil’s farm I went with the truck load of goodies to celebrate the
independence of our nation. It’s not really Dr. Phil’s farm, but we call my
friend whose farm it was Dr. Phil since he seems to be the one we all go to
with our problems. Before any of us touched the alcohol, we went for the
explosives. It must be a guy thing. The three of us, Dr. Phil, my best friend
The Mexi-Jew, and me, decided to have a magic missile fight…
Have you ever seen the “Magic
Missile” video on YouTube? If not look it up real fast. Type it in and it’s the
first one. I’ll wait…
Yeah, we wanted to do that. It was
kind of mocking the kid in the video, but kind of because all three of us are
that nerdy. So, roman candles and lighters in hand we all ran in different
directions. A triangle of 20 somethings pointing sparkly gunpowder filled
sticks at one another, ready to yell “magic missile” as they go off. Then they
did. The Mexi-Jew’s went off first. He got 2 shots off before mine or the good
doctor’s fuse even reached the explosives.
At this
point I feel it’s critical to remind you that none of us had touched the
alcohol yet. Just in case you thought that’s what made us dumb.
Anyway The
Mexi-Jew’s roman candle goes off first as he shouts “Magic Missile!” The ball
of burning sulfur hit me right in the crotch. It burned straight through my
Levis and boxers. And it burned the hair off my inner thigh. The scorch marks
from that would have been enough to make this a good story, but just “good”
stories aren’t that much worth telling. You see we don’t skimp on fireworks, so
when we buy roman candles, we buy the ones with the report at the end. That
means it explodes after it fires. That’s right, in my pants. If it had gone off
and inch higher I would be speaking in a voice more than an inch higher these
days.
I threw my
candle as I dropped to the ground, and the second shot out of The Mexi-Jew’s
candle glanced off my side. We’re best friends; I can honestly say if our
positions were reversed I would have kept shooting too. I still have those
pants, and it’s now tradition that I wear them to all parties with fireworks.
Later that night, our Hippy (another in our band of miscreants) got revenge for
mu bruised and burnt leg by dropping lady fingers in The Mexi-Jew’s pocket. He
almost lost that nipple. Over all, it was a pretty phenomenal night, as far as
nights that almost make you a eunuch go.
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