I've decided my blogs have become a little dry. Instead of filling y'all with fun stories, I've used this to bitch about things that drive me crazy. (Did you notice how I used y'all? I'm not entirely sure what I used before y'all. Did I really say "you all" or "you guys"? If so, that sounds completely stupid. Seriously, next time you are talking to a group of people, keep track of what you say instead of y'all. I'm curious. But I'm in the South now and by God, I will use y'all. You should try it!)
Anyway, I thought this would be a great time for an old school story. It was the Fourth of July back in 2004 and Chambers was having its usual Fourth of July festivities back when Chambers had awesome Fourth of July festivities. Every year, Chambers held a Road Rally, where a group of people would set forth in a car on a kick-ass scaventer hunt. Usually the Road Rally takes place around the country roads of Chambers. However, in 2004, the makers of the Road Rally decided to take it "off road." So, me and my friends, Bryan, Tim, Brett and Brady went on the Off-Road Rally in Tim's bronco. He had taken off the top of his bronco, so we were flying around the country roads with the wind whipping through our hair. Well, mostly my hair. I think they all had short hair. Well, except for Tim. He always kept his kind of shaggy.
Anywho, I should have known the day was going to spell disaster when we were on a section line and the bronco took a bull hole and flew us up out of our seats at least three feet. I banged the shit out of my head on bronco's roll bars and nearly knocked myself out. The Road Ralley was especially hard, so after I was half-looped, we decided not to finish and instead wreak havoc around town. The boys had bought a huge box of illegal fireworks full of bottle rockets, heavy duty black cats and artillery shells.
We would light the artillery shells and then throw them out the sides of the bronco. On Dyke street (yes, there is a street in Chambers called Dyke street. However, no visitors would every know this because people had stolen the sign every time a new one would be put up. Hello? Dyke street? Who wouldn't steal that sign?) is where our little accident happened. Brett lit a black cat and threw it out the side of the bronco. We waited a second for the "pop." But the "pop" was more like a "HOLY SHIT BOOOOOMMMM!" right in our ears.
Instead of throwing the black cat off to the side, Brett thew it behind him and right into the box of illegal fireworks. That's when all hell broke loose. I'm talking World War III took place right in Chambers, USA. One tiny little black cat set off every single artillery shell, bottle rocket and chain of black cats in our entire box.
You know in war movies when gunshells are shot into the dirt and dirt goes flying up into the air 10 feet? Yeah, that's what was happening to our box. Cardboard was flying everywhere. Bottle rockets were zooming past our heads, into our shirts, through our hair and several made their way into our skin.
Tim was smart and parked the bronco right in the middle of Main Street and Dyke and we bailed like 76 clowns out of a Volkswagon. However, I don't deal well with scary situations, so I started giggling like a 12-year-old school girl. Mid-giggles, my leg got stuck on seatbelt, so while everyone else was 100 feet away from the bronco, I was dangling out the side trying to get out. Then I started laughing super duper hard. Then, between the laughter and being scared shitless that the bronco was going to blow, I peed my freaking pants. (I never told the guys I peed my pants though. They wondered why my jeans were soaked in between my crotch. I said I spilled my soda in the chaos. Little did they know I wasn't drinking a soda.).
Side note: Actually, maybe it's just Tim who makes me pee my pants. When Tim, Maggie and I went to a haunted house as 8th graders, a monster from the house stole Mags. I was so scared and nervous that the monster was a real killer and had taken Maggie into a room to kill her that I started laughing uncontrollably. Then I peed my pants. It's a defense mechanism. I'm pretty sure Tim knew I pissed myself then, so he should have assumed that's what happened this time around. I'd be awful in a scary movie scenario. I'd just pee everywhere.
Finally, I got my leg un-caught and I ran away with the boys as the bronco was lighting up the middle of Main Street. My sixth grade teacher and our school lunch lady got quite the show, as they were sitting on their front porch while the whole fiasco went down. Oh small towns...instead of calling the fire department, they sat and watched us as we nearly went up in flames. I can still hear their laughter ringing in my head.
The firecrackers stopped eventually and luckily we were all okay. I still have a burn mark on my stomach from a damn bottle rocket that went through my shirt. And I still have the embarrassment of pissing my pants.
Moral of the story: Parents, let your teenagers play with illegal fireworks. Makes for great stories and awesome battle scars.