You are funny. Simple-minded, but funny.

You wouldn’t believe it.

[...] While this process was occurring, a wave of whispers spread throughout the onlookers. “He’s going to shoot a bottle rocket out of his ass.” I’m not the kind of person who gets shocked often, but this was one of those times. I’ve shot bottle rockets out of cans, out of melons, and out of my hands, but never out of my ass.   The first bottle rocket launched from Bob’s butt flew straight towards the neighbor’s roof, landed, and then it exploded. The second and third did the same. By the fourth launch, Bob improved his anal aim and was able to get one to detonate in the air. There was no fifth launch, because as it was about to occur, we heard a siren. Bob removed the rocket, pulled up his boxers, then pulled up his pants, and ran for the crowd, so as to blend in [as well as one could with smoke pouring from their unzipped fly].   Apparently, the neighbors weren’t too keen on bottle rockets exploding on their leaf-covered roof. Once the cops arrived, they gave a very genteel “Someone reported fireworks. If you were firing them, please stop” request. Had we been shooting them in the inner city, we would have been cuffed, sodomized, and imprisoned (not necessarily in that order). Thank God for suburban living.   The party ended with a whimper. When I arrived at work the next Monday, my Zatarain’s mistake and Bob’s butt launch were the talk of my co-workers. Eventually, everyone forgot, until now. Remember, whatever happens in the suburbs stays in the suburbs, unless of course BradBrown.com blogs about it years later. [...]