Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesdays: Do You Sense a Pattern Here?

In case you haven't been paying attention--and why should you, right?--I've had a bit of a theme going throughout the month of October. Oh, you picked up on that, did you? Well, good. I meant for you to.

And, no, it's not about me being angry and bitter when not lovingly plied with coffee every morning, noon and night. No, I'm talking about Tuesdays and how we've been blowing up pumpkins on them. Even on days when I'm supposed to be expressing my undying and wholesome feelings of love and lust and anything else starting with "l" for my wife, we had exploding pumpkins.

And do you know why I've blown up a pumpkin for every Tuesday?

Because I fucking hate pumpkins.

It's true. I'm pepophobic.

It all happened in those halcyon days of my youth. I was no more than four or five, I believe. My father was taking me trick-or-treating. It was just he and I, so either my brother wasn't born yet or he wasn't old enough to join us. I guess there's an outside chance that this could have happened when I was seven, but that would have made him three and he probably would have been with us.

Anyway, we had just gone to my Uncle Duff and Aunt Jan's house for tasty sweets. That meant our next stop along the way would be my Aunt Caroline and Uncle Marlowe's house (small town America, remember), and then a stop at my cousin Jamie's and then back down the hill to home. We used pretty much the same route for most years, only branching out later in life when I could walk further and haul my load home, because my dad wasn't going to carry it...not so much because he was trying to make a man out of me, but mostly because he had to carry my little brother and his candy.

So, as we were heading toward Aunt Caroline and Uncle Marlowe's, there was a big, kind of spooky-looking white house that sat at the corner of the alleyway that went to my aunt and uncle's house. It was one of those houses whose exterior was at one point white, but under years of neglect and somewhat harsh weather conditions, the paint had turned dingy and drab and in several places had been stripped away and hung in long, tattered tapers from the clapboards. The porch, as well, was mistreated and misused, with insipid gray boards bowing and buckling on the ends, no two matching up and making a proper seam.

Sounds like a perfect house to take your kid to, right?

Well, the light was on, so my dad decided we should reap some extra ill-gotten gains there. As I mounted the creaking, bowing steps, I noticed to the left of the door, a jack-o-lantern staring out toward the street. It sat between the door and the window that overlooked the porch. It was poorly-illuminated by the porch light, which hung on the right-hand side of the door. However, the jack-o-lanterns face glowed with a preternaturally evil light.

Not to mention, this thing was fucking huge. It was easily as big as I was back then, at least height-wise. I could have easily crawled inside it's hollowed-out shell. There was no way in hell I would do such a thing, however, because it was pure, unadulterated evil.

I only say this because, as I approached the door, the jack-o-lantern cackled at me. Madly. In a deep, resonant voice that smacked of paternal confessions shortly after lopping off your hand.

"Happy Halloween, Little Boy," the pumpkin boomed, cackling once more.

This rather unnatural series of events scared the living fuck out of me.

It was at this point that I did what any five-year-old who just had the living fuck scared out of him would do: I started crying. I ran off the porch just as the woman who lived in the house came running out to scold the pumpkin for scaring me. I remember seeing her bend over in front of the jack-o-lantern and waggling a finger in its face, telling it that it was a bad pumpkin for scaring me. However, the pumpkin responded to her scolding in that same harsh, forbidding, booming voice, rendering her attempts at allaying my fears moot.

She tried to encourage me to come up on the porch, but I would have none of that bullshit. I just wanted to leave. My dad, however, tried to coax me up onto the porch as well. I still refused. He then tried to explain to me that the pumpkin had a microphone hidden inside and that there was nothing to be afraid of. Great. A pumpkin with electronics wired inside? The pumpkins were turning into fucking cyborgs? No thanks. I remained steadfast--and teary-eyed--in my refusal to climb onto the porch.

So, the woman brought me my candy. I don't even remember what it was. I just wanted to get out of there. Finally, after receiving my hush money sugar-infused treat, we continued on our way, first to Aunt Caroline's, and then home.

And that, my friends, is why I love seeing these obnoxious orange orbs getting their explosive comeuppance.

I love how that one guy sought shelter by standing in front of the semi trailer. Brilliantly done! Encore!!!

Now, I love thermite. You love thermite. We all love thermite. That fiery concoction of aluminum powder and ferric oxide has made an appearance here on several occasions. Each time, it's warmed our souls (and chewed the hell out of whatever it was raining down on). It's so fantastic that it gives you a little warm feeling deep down inside. In fact, my toes are a little warm just thinking about it now.

That being said, this could be the dumbest thing I've ever seen:


The one chick did have some big tits, though. Big tits or not, you won't find me sticking my hand down into a mostly-sealed container trying to ignite thermite and then attempting to run from it as it shoots liquid metal cascading down onto the benchtop in front of me. I'm guessing that was water she was shooting it with there at the end, but still, I personally wouldn't get that close to it.

Safety first. Especially when blowing shit up.