Bowling

Bowling is for Diseased Chimps

God is gay, burn the flag

-Kurt Cobain

Bowling is still not a sport and I still have no respect for anyone who excels at it.
The real problem with bowling is there is nothing exciting to write about when you consider the whole act largely consists of getting up and down to throw a ball.
No conversation lasts longer than three minutes and, therefore, you have no time to cause the spectacles and folklore that can be had in a good game of football.
But, there are some shining moments that can be gleaned from a good game of bowling: Scott fucking a ball retriever, myself engaged in alternate-lane bowling with Troy, and Troy copping ass from his wife in front of youngsters.
I guess last night really proved how far Shannon can be pushed before she hits me, though.
It's been awhile since a woman hit me, and I have to say I was shocked as I felt the Tyson-like jab hit me in my meaty manchop. I immediately hit the floor as my humerus snapped into my scapula.
There's nothing a bashed-apart arm can do to prevent a pro from continuing a saga of drinking and so I quickly popped the Oxycontin that I stole from my cancer'd Grandfather and continued to bowl, all the while knowing that Shannon may be rabid enough to try another shot at me.
Maybe it was my penchant for sending her emails about men punt-kicking small dogs, or my need to yell "Yahtzee" every time she bowled. Who knows, but I will say this much: she's not much of a sport.
It takes a champ to fathom the barbs and jabs of everyday life, and I suppose Shannon has not found the nirvana I live with. No I will not take my rancor out on (name withheld) for (story withheld), I guess I could retaliate by calling her (hyphenated explicit insult).
But that's evil and cheap, and I am rich with respect for women of all kinds.
No, if I am to call Scott a poor man's John Elway with gingivitis of the genitalia, then I have to expect to (story withheld) by his (repeated expletive) girlfriend.
That's fair, and I am a fair and fat man.
But, what I can't stand for is when the waiter has me waiting nine years for a beer.
Beer is like Milk: it comes with a picture of missing children on the back.
And when my beer finally came, I was puzzled to learn that I have been missing since 1981.
...and that I am black and 19 years old. Also, my real name is Reginald Brawley.
Go figure.
Will I return to my family in Jefferson County, Nebraska?
It's anyone's guess.
I am broke and my mother keeps accusing me of throwing out butter for some reason.....yes, I think my true family should know that their son is alive and well and white.
I can see it now, as I stand on the porch and ma hugs me and my father shakes my hand and says "I love you, son."
Then I break the news that I'm white and they weep for awhile and promise to get me help.
I guess I've been white for a few years now, it was just one of those things that happens gradually. You start feeling sorry for yourself for not being able to afford a car stereo and soon you're laying off thousands of Enron employees and hiding behind a monster named George W. Bush.
Oh well.
There is help, and I intend to seek it. I was black once and I can be black again, with the help of my true parents and siblings.
So, mom, dad: I will be home soon, and we will bowl together and I'll try to enjoy jazz and Jesse Jackson.
It may be awhile before I can feel anything but selfishness and apathy, but lord I'll try.
Free at last! Free at last! Thank God I'm not white!

In summation: go fuck yourself (name withheld)

Happy Egg Hunting
-Matt Eckert