Ring in the New Year

Warning: spoiler ahead. If you haven’t seen the Devil’s Rejects by Rob Zombie, grab some beers and check it out.

So I was watching the Devil’s Rejects and I got to the ending where they’re trapped by the police blockade and they decide to go down guns blazing and they charge the pigs in their convertible firing and laughing maniacally and rocking out to Free Bird and it hits me – that’s how I want to go.

Originally I wanted to be taken out by a meteor. It’s an idea that has a lot of appeal for me on several levels – there’s the geeky sci-fi appeal of being squashed by a hunk of space rock, it’s violent and messy but too quick to be painful, and it’s a memorable way to go. I imagined myself at a pool party, drink in hand, chatting with my friends when BANG! – I’m a mangled mass of limbs and fried organs in a smoking crater. Years later, they’d still be talking about me. “Do you remember that party you threw a few years ago?” “Oh, yeah, the one where the guy got smoked by a meteor? That was freaky.” “Yeah. Anyway, do you still have the recipe for that dip you served?” Of course I don’t actually get invited to parties, so the meteor will just have to hit me in my chair in front of the computer.

The problem with that scenario is that I get taken out by some random act of fate (heh). I don’t like that idea, hence my lifelong obsession with suicide. I want to be walking along, minding my own business, when I see a runaway bus crest the hill and bear down upon me, too fast to avoid. Instead of succumbing to my destiny, I whip out a pistol, cry “Ha ha, feck you, Fate” and paint the sidewalk with my brains. The bus will then lock its tires and shudder to a halt inches from my cooling corpse, but that doesn’t matter. I will have gone out on my own terms.

I like the thought of dying on my own terms, just like one of my idols Hunter S. Thompson, so I decided years ago that when it’s my time to go I’ll already be gone. Suicide is the way for me. I still clearly remember the first time I heard that word. I was four years old, playing in the back yard in my cowboy hat and boots and (unfortunately) pretend gun. When my grandmother stepped outside I jubilantly ran over, shouted “Lookee here, grandma” and then pretended to shoot myself in the head and collapse on the ground. She replied “Uh huh. Committed suicide.”

I heard that word and felt entranced. I didn’t know what it meant, but I liked it right away. I managed to remember the word and pestered my family for the remainder of the day until they finally told me what it meant, and for once they didn’t try to convince me it meant something else or that I was mispronouncing it. It was fate fating me to cheat fate, the perfect ironic way to end. Not only could I go out in a blaze of staged glory, but my death would continue to haunt the minds of my friends and loved ones (note to self – gotta get me some of those).

Anyway, shooting myself in front of the bus sounds cool, but I wanted to explore my demise a little further to ensure it makes the kind of artistic statement my legacy deserves. My death should send a simple but poignant message, namely “I FECKING HATE YOU ALL!!!” To that end, in high school I envisioned myself getting into my car (a 1969 Mustang Fastback – that’s not a picture of mine, but it’s close), dousing myself with gasoline, getting on the highway, blasting Slayer at maximum wattage, setting meself on fire, and then driving down the road like a madman, laughing and crying and weaving through traffic until the car exploded. I guess I could still do that, but it’s just not the same in a 2002 Chevy Malibu. Also, it might sting a bit.

Then I wanted to express my disillusionment with organized religion when I offed meself by dressing in a cheesy devil outfit, strapping explosives to my body, rushing into a packed church, leaping upon the stage (I meant altar), shouting “May jesus fuck you!” and then detonating myself in a shower of napalm and bone fragments. Ideally it would kill about half of the people there, leaving the other half behind to be interviewed by the press and to spend the rest of their useless lives in therapy.

That was the plan until I saw Devil’s Rejects. Charging a police barricade, even if it’s in my Malibu (although hopefully I’ll have a Harley-Davidson Fatboy for this) is the way to go. I might have to pick a song other than Free Bird. Sure it’s nice and the irony is appealing but it takes too long to get to the rocking part. That could confuse the state troopers. “Is he gonna charge or not?” “I don’t know. I’m going for a smoke. Call me if he does anything.” Another problem is that the police aren’t currently after me, so a road block might be a little hard to come by. Maybe I can wait until they’re after somebody else, then intervene and steal their thunder. Maybe I can charge a DUI roadblock – they won’t be expecting that. Maybe I can just assault one of those weigh stations on the side of the interstate – they really won’t be expecting that. That could lead to another problem: what if I charge and survive the onslaught? I would feel most dreadfully embarrassed, especially when I have to sit around and wait for the next shift to arrive to finish the job.

Oh, well. Lots of details to work out. Fortunately I’m not feeling especially suicidal this week, so I’ve got time to get the logistics straight.

Oh, yeah. Back what I originally meant to say: happy new year everyone.

Death, out