Blowin' up Mom

[FAILED] AUTHOR'S NOTE: The best thing about a submission being rejected? Instant blog entry for busy weeks. Read said rejected submission below.


Dear Consumer Firework Dealers:

If it's true that in "spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," then it so follows that in summer he reflects on how much s@#! he can blow up, either, within the confines of the law or within an easy sprint of his front door (once home, he can blame it on the damn neighbor kids if the cops show). For many—with Anthrax t-shirts and without—summer means fireworks. From wee red rockets set off on by beach vacationers to lopsided hearts splayed overhead at awkward outdoor symphony concerts where they play the 1812 Overture and confuse the locals ("What the Hell is this? I don't know this song…ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."), everyone wants in on the explosives.

You, as the go-to guys for these opportunities for spontaneous amputation, keep American happy and finger-free all summer long. And I salute you for it. However, as a recent consumer-turned-smuggler of legal-turned-illegal-over-state-lines, I have a request. Please quit tippy-toeing around and just label one of the aisles in your Maul-Mart "Human Remain Disposal." Those of us who made a special trip just to find a vessel appropriate for shooting our mothers into the sky in the dead of night aren't just dazzled by detonators, we're wild about convenience. My father and I must have spent 30 minutes wandering the aisles of Captain Billy's Whiz Bang trying to gauge just how much of Mom would fit into the Rocket Assault 5000. And whom do you trust with the ashes of a loved one: Pyro Pete or Artillery Al? How many rockets would it take to send the 1/12 of her contained in just one souvenir mini-urn—we got a price break for buying in bulk—soaring across the Atlantic?

Not that we minded having to shop around. On this, the five-year anniversary of her death, we wanted to fulfill her wishes and we wanted to do it right. My baby brother, taking a cue from SCTV, observed that we needed to "blow her up good." Still, even if we were not in a hurry to hide 3-foot-high rockets under unseasonably long woolly overcoats and sneak them across state lines, some guidance might've been nice. Instead of Rockets Gibraltar, we found "Blow Osama's F@$#ing Head Off (PURPLE)." Instead of "To the Moon Alice" we found "Little Billy's Eye Socket Rockets." Is it too much to ask for just one niche product for a demographic that makes up, oh, 1/3 of the world's population (dead mothers)? I think not.

No thanks to you or your limited stock and guidance, Consumer Fireworks Dealer, we managed to purchase the appropriate make and model of explosive. We hoped for the best as we trudged to the shoreline, my brother looking oh-so-Boba-Fett-ish with a bag usually reserved for folding chairs slung over his shoulder, a half-dozen red rocket points peeking out. It all went so well, you'd never know Dad doesn't spend most Saturday nights shooting human remains into the night sky. In between cries of "we're going to be SO busted!" (my sister and me) and "look out!" (Dad Lebowski-ing the remaining ashes—did you know each firework holds only a thimble of Mom?—into the ocean and, inadvertently, into our eyes), we managed to say a lovely little farewell. The fact that we were setting off illegal fireworks loaded with human remains in front of someone else's rented vacation bungalow (the pyromaniac's answer to leaving a flaming bag of dog poop on someone's doorstep).…well, it just added to the wonderment.

After our victory over, both, the law and your poorly-labeled
merchandise, we took a moment to toast her memory with some champagne. "Here's Mom in your eye!" Dad proclaimed. Indeed.

Mom would have just loved her scorching send-off, Fireworks Sales Guy, and I'm sure other Moms would, too. I suggest that you adjust your business plan accordingly.

Sincerely,
Molly
Future Firework Display