It's Not Even A Real Sport

A ten-pin bowling ball and two pins.

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A text message exchange betwixt myself and Bob this fine evening as I lie under the influence of a muscle relaxer and a fistful of ibuprofen:

Me: Broke my back bowling. Couldn’t even finish one game. Fucking pathetic.

Him: I hear you need to be in great shape to bowl.

Me: Yeah. The blue-hairs at the other end of the place looked wicked-fit.

Him: Them bitches will fuck yo shit up.

The kids sure had fun, though. They got to bowl the 5 frames I had so sit out on account of being ELDERLY.

Next time I’ll know to bring my walker and a can of Ensure. No need to order a slice of pizza for me. I can’t even participate in the pastime of the beer-bellied warehouse worker.

Actually, I know exactly what the problem was. No cocktails. Damn daytime bowling, homeschooling event. Mama needs a beverage when she bowls. Need to loosen up the old lady’s joints. I guarantee those blue-hairs weren’t bowling sober.