I appreciate the emails begging me to fill the public in on my bowling for birthday celebration. Your concern that I would spend a night in a bowling alley with people named Floyd and Tiny Nipples McGraw moves me.
Of course I'll tell you 'cause telling is what I do.
Here are things that did not happen at my bowling birthday party:
That's right, y'all! The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou did not make me bowl!
She did however make me think I was going to bowl.
Inside her secret lair there was a long table decorated with a pink table cloth, because she swears pink is my favorite color even though it is so not... it is HER favorite color. On top of the pink table were bowling trophies.
Chick bowling trophies.
Little known fact: professional women bowlers who are skilled enough to receive trophies always wear cheer leading skirts because all the tiny, silver trophy girls were wearing them. I saw Deputy Pretty trying to find out whether they were wearing panties, but he never said one way or the other.
For more than an hour the people who were there to help me celebrate (and get free food) repeatedly told me we would be leaving for the bowling alley momentarily. In protest, I repeatedly pointed to my red, stiletto BCBG babies. They were unmoved.
Especially since The Evil BL presented me with a birthday gift of handcrafted, one of a kind bowling shoes.
They were covered in glued-on macaroni and spray painted pink.
These rotten people collectively convinced me I had to get in the car immediately or Jimbo the Bowling Alley reservations taker would be angered. I did as they forced me to do...eventually... but not before making a series of offers to perform exotic sexual favors if they would agree to call the whole thing off.
That no one took me up on it should truly make me feel like a troll, now that I think about it.
After Mr. Man got me safely in the car, every last one of those one-eyed jack legs bolted to the front porch of BL's lair, pointed and laughed. They were quite proud of themselves.
Little do they know I will spend my week conjuring up a voo-doo curse which will leave each of them unable to pee from the body part designated to manage that function. (Hint: You shouldn't stand near them when they have a cold.)
It wasn't all hateful and conniving though. The Red-Headed Evil Genius prepared a lovely meal of spaghetti, salad and some crazy dessert involving pretzels and cherries which was surprisingly good even though I hate cherries and only eat pretzels if someone dares me.
While that all might sound pretty sweet, you have to remember who was the preparer of the feast. In good old Evil BL style, guests were not allowed to have plates and utensils. We were each given a bag with items in it that were not created by God for eating spaghetti and warned if we didn't use them, she would hook battery cables from her SUV to our breasts.
Sure, it sounds like fun but it takes too long to stop your teeth from chattering and the next day you can't do a thing with your hair.
Mr. Man had to eat from a martini glass with a corn on the cob holder as a fork. Another manly man had to put his spaghetti in a sippie cup while another had to eat from a giant, plastic tub I can only assume typically holds the kidneys the Evil One steals from the homeless and sells on www.StolenBodyParts.com.
There were friends around to help me celebrate not bowling; some I knew and some I'd never seen before but liked immediately because I was drinking and I am a very friendly drinker.
As I said, Deputy Pretty was in the house...looking up the tiny, plastic skirts of trophy bowlers and Mr. Man was there because Jack Black couldn't drive me home. (Well not from a party full of cops, anyway.)
Also in attendance were Lt. DB, the most poetic man in law enforcement. He's a dear old friend who apparently turned into a flaming homosexual since we last spoke as he makes his young officers refer to him as "The Commander". (Wasn't that one of the Village People?)
There was a pregnant person there as well, which is why I think I may be knocked up. She looked contagious.
A man in uniform dropped by... just long enough to loudly tell my husband I looked better as a blond. Thankfully that was prior to Jack and I sharing special moments or I might have extended his asp right up his ass.
And not in that good way, either.
But the person that wins the coveted Favorite Guest at My Party Award was the beer and waffles guy. Every answer to every question all night was "beer and waffles" and kids, he even used the word "ostentatious" and knew which female Jewish singer with a big nose we were talking about when playing "Taboo". I now officially love him and plan on ordering a t-shirt with his face on it.
Come to think of it, maybe people should be calling him "The Commander".
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