Fireworks and Alcohol= Darwin Awards. (January 2013)

Welcomed in the New Year with a bang. Literally. Holzgerlingen at midnight on New Years Eve is like Baghdad in March of 2003–it shock and awe via showy pyrotechnics (just add drunk Germans). Mongo set to work igniting the 400 fireworks he bought at the local Lidl and making our neighbors jealous with their pansy sparklers and under two foot Roman candles. A cigar in his mouth, he donned my Russian fur Ushanka and a head lamp which blinded us every time he looked at us. My face was pasted in a permanent grin as I watched the cold night sky light up. Mongo hollered, “Hey, honey–you want to fire one?”. I did. Badly. I didn’t know if it was the lure of rocket power or the countless Sidecars (throwback cocktail)  I drank but I ran out and picked up the biggest, fattest rocket we had and I then asked, “okay, what do I do?” to a man who has completed two combat tours in Iraq, dodged IEDs and used a EOD team to blow up a pair of my heels he didn’t like. I was sure he would give me a full safety rundown. We spent most of today debating what his reply was–we agreed the words “light it” and “just let it do it’s thing” were in there but never were the words “then let go” uttered. (Note: I realize now that even a monkey would have assumed that “let go” was step 2 but rocket power and sidecars have a powerful effect). To make matters worse, I yelled the the crowd of our neighbors, “Hey, everyone! Look at me!” then lit the rocket. The first few seconds were uneventful and the hissing of the fuse made it’s way to what I can only assume what a shitload of gunpowder. Then it happened, the rocket ignited and I began to scream as tiny shards of fire began to burn my scalp. Like a pyrotechnic, hysterical Statue of Liberty, my grip tighten on the rocket stem as if hundreds of French children had welded my fingers to the stick with their pocket change. At some point–likely when some of my hair began to burn–I took a knee, re-aimed at the ground (for no apparent reason other than to save myself the purchase of a wig) and finally let go, sending the rocket to a dirt grave approximately 15 feet away from me, but not before it pin balled around our neighbors patio furniture. This morning, as I went to wipe off what little makeup did not transfer onto my pillow case, I also picked off small melted plastic pieces off my neck and face and small nests of burned hair. It is official, I am one of those people the Navy Safety Center writes about.