Day 158
You’ll be delighted to hear after yesterday’s unpleasantness I won’t be giving any further descriptions regarding the application of medicated haemorrhoid cream. Furthermore, as the offending ailment has more or less cleared up and my rectal region has returned to a less painful state I’m rather hoping I won’t have to put any more on again either.
It was just as well, the current Mrs. Snowman arrived home from work with a crooked smile and informed me we were to go ten pin bowling later in the evening.
Apparently one of her work colleagues is leaving at the end of the week and organised a gathering to celebrate her tenure. It seems a vote was taken and the majority thought it would be nice to spend an evening at the local bowling alley; and spouses were encouraged to come along.
This was a bad move on at least two fronts.
Firstly my sporting activity is confined to nothing more vigorous than poker, and you know how skilled I am in that direction. Secondly, the wife made the astonishingly foolish decision to drive.
Intoxication beckoned.
After a light meal, I changed into something appropriate and watched the television for a few hours while Mrs. Snowman decided what to wear for the evening. I’m not certain of how many costume changes she went through before deciding on a pair of jeans and t-shirt but I saw two entire episodes of "Criminal Intent" while I was waiting. I’m also not certain why she took so long to decide on her outfit, particularly as it was the first one she tried on…prior to the following three hundred or so.
After arriving at the bowling alley and getting the introductions out of the way, we obtained those horrible specialist shoes from the sales assistant and made our way to the bar. Other than a few people being intrigued with my bright blue beard and the speed with which I dispatched my first three beers everyone seemed pretty friendly.
Until it was my turn to launch a bowling ball down the lane.
I can only assume I chose an incorrect weight or assessed the wrong trajectory because as I released the ball it missed my lane completely, bounced in the one next to me and ended up in the one next to that, about forty degrees away from its intended direction.
The polished wooden floor didn’t help matters as the weight of the ball conflicted with the direction of my momentum ensuring I lost my balance. It was about this point my feet got tangled up and, for the briefest of moments, my head was on the same level as my knees and I found myself peering backwards between my legs at the group behind me.
I can now state that ending up sprawled on ones arse in the middle of a crowded bowling hall is even less dignified than you might think.
When I looked up there was a very large, intimidating gentleman peering down at me and from the tone of his voice didn’t seem too happy.
“What’s your fucking game?”
It seems he was in the process of chucking his ball and was completely put off by mine. I think the situation was diffused after I replied “Whatever it is, I don’t think its ten pin bowling”, it must also have helped that rather than coming to my assistance my new group of friends were still rolling around in fits of laughter.
I can report, Dear Reader, an hour later I’d not only achieved the lowest score of the evening but also the lowest score of the year in that particular establishment.
I’m thinking of getting an engraved plaque to commemorate the event.
From one disaster to another…today’s poker.
It might have been the additional six beers I consumed before getting home but I heard a little voice telling what a brilliant idea it would be to invest half of my enormous bankroll on the 1c/2c tables.
Twenty minutes later it had migrated to the account of the rotten bugger who cracked my pocket aces with 8-6 suited.
Next time I hear any words resonating around my head they shall be ignored, unless of course it’s a suggestion to visit the booze cabinet.
So, from past experience, on the Richter scale of success I’d rate today at about a 6.8…although I wouldn’t be surprised to feel the aftershocks rumble around for the next few days.
As Groucho Marx once said “I’ve had a wonderful evening…but this wasn’t it”
Nostradamus had nothing on this guy.
In five hundred years time followers will make pilgrimages to the original sound stage of "Duck Soup" wearing fake moustaches and chomping on cuban cigars.
They'll look very similar to the mother-in-law.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0.37
It was just as well, the current Mrs. Snowman arrived home from work with a crooked smile and informed me we were to go ten pin bowling later in the evening.
Apparently one of her work colleagues is leaving at the end of the week and organised a gathering to celebrate her tenure. It seems a vote was taken and the majority thought it would be nice to spend an evening at the local bowling alley; and spouses were encouraged to come along.
This was a bad move on at least two fronts.
Firstly my sporting activity is confined to nothing more vigorous than poker, and you know how skilled I am in that direction. Secondly, the wife made the astonishingly foolish decision to drive.
Intoxication beckoned.
After a light meal, I changed into something appropriate and watched the television for a few hours while Mrs. Snowman decided what to wear for the evening. I’m not certain of how many costume changes she went through before deciding on a pair of jeans and t-shirt but I saw two entire episodes of "Criminal Intent" while I was waiting. I’m also not certain why she took so long to decide on her outfit, particularly as it was the first one she tried on…prior to the following three hundred or so.
After arriving at the bowling alley and getting the introductions out of the way, we obtained those horrible specialist shoes from the sales assistant and made our way to the bar. Other than a few people being intrigued with my bright blue beard and the speed with which I dispatched my first three beers everyone seemed pretty friendly.
Until it was my turn to launch a bowling ball down the lane.
I can only assume I chose an incorrect weight or assessed the wrong trajectory because as I released the ball it missed my lane completely, bounced in the one next to me and ended up in the one next to that, about forty degrees away from its intended direction.
The polished wooden floor didn’t help matters as the weight of the ball conflicted with the direction of my momentum ensuring I lost my balance. It was about this point my feet got tangled up and, for the briefest of moments, my head was on the same level as my knees and I found myself peering backwards between my legs at the group behind me.
I can now state that ending up sprawled on ones arse in the middle of a crowded bowling hall is even less dignified than you might think.
When I looked up there was a very large, intimidating gentleman peering down at me and from the tone of his voice didn’t seem too happy.
“What’s your fucking game?”
It seems he was in the process of chucking his ball and was completely put off by mine. I think the situation was diffused after I replied “Whatever it is, I don’t think its ten pin bowling”, it must also have helped that rather than coming to my assistance my new group of friends were still rolling around in fits of laughter.
I can report, Dear Reader, an hour later I’d not only achieved the lowest score of the evening but also the lowest score of the year in that particular establishment.
I’m thinking of getting an engraved plaque to commemorate the event.
From one disaster to another…today’s poker.
It might have been the additional six beers I consumed before getting home but I heard a little voice telling what a brilliant idea it would be to invest half of my enormous bankroll on the 1c/2c tables.
Twenty minutes later it had migrated to the account of the rotten bugger who cracked my pocket aces with 8-6 suited.
Next time I hear any words resonating around my head they shall be ignored, unless of course it’s a suggestion to visit the booze cabinet.
So, from past experience, on the Richter scale of success I’d rate today at about a 6.8…although I wouldn’t be surprised to feel the aftershocks rumble around for the next few days.
As Groucho Marx once said “I’ve had a wonderful evening…but this wasn’t it”
Nostradamus had nothing on this guy.
In five hundred years time followers will make pilgrimages to the original sound stage of "Duck Soup" wearing fake moustaches and chomping on cuban cigars.
They'll look very similar to the mother-in-law.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0.37