So I went bowling the other day for the first time in years. Let me start by saying that bowling is an activity for people with strong wrists, excessive masturbators whose musculature is well prepared to toss a thirteen pound ball down the lane twenty or so times.
I am an excellent bowler.
But all masturbatory jokes aside, it really was an uproarious adventure, just the sort of thing a desperate author needs to get his mind off the critique sessions that are leaving him lost and confused in a binge eating labyrinth of self-doubt. My sister Jamy--all cell phone attached to the ear and sleeping baby attached to the hip--and my cousin Whitney--all crazy, and... well, more crazy--joined me at the lanes where the evening started with some truly fabulous rented bowling shoes. These things were killer: Team Cobra, maroon and green patterned, size twelve emblazoned on the heel. I've got to get me a pair of those!
Anyway, after the first frame or two, Whitney and I decided we could enjoy the experience more if we invented some absurd ball release walks. I started with just an awkward run sort of thing, tossing the ball at the last second and narrowly avoiding a face full of lane (those things are slippery!). Then came The Music Man, a shameless parade march in which the ball wielding hand raises up and down like the proud arm of a baton-wielding Grand Marshall. Whitney upped the ante with The James Brown, shaking her booty as her feet shuffled all the way through to release. This is when the stares started. Long story short, The Hail Hitler led to The Klaus Barbie--which looked just like The Hail Hitler with a few extra feet of stick up the ass--The Betty White led to The Bea Arthur--which may have involved an insensitive portrayal of a corpse--and The Bella Swan led to quivering all around.
I'd recommend any of these moves except The Bella Swan. All that jittery longing leads only to the gutter, a place where you really don't want to find your balls; you know what I mean?
Until we meet again to infect the living with the frothing saliva of our plague,
P.S. If you actually read this, you've earned yourself a free carton of Vita-Cigs... not for yourself, greedy, but as a donation made in your name to the Girl Scouts of America. You're Welcome. :)