Friday, February 16, 2007

The last thing you should do when grappling with your darkest innermost demon, in my case bowling, is to locate the nearest demon table, then promptly bend over it and drop your trousers, all in one smooth motion. This is precisely what happened 42 seconds into my “game” and, although I’ve only anecdotal evidence to back my case currently, I suspect the majority of the marketing department saw me gutterball that cursed orb in the lane to my left just as the CMO arrived, such is my generous nature.

“We all heard that one,” he declared.

I wish I could tell you my game progressed to at least 100, but what began at a valiant 70-something eventually devolved to under 50. This is the threshold in the bowling world that, once crossed, puts you squarely in the special needs section of the alley, a dimly lit corner where your ugly bowling shoes are tied for you while you dribble house pizza on your shirtfront without reprimand. Great is my shame.