Saturday night was a continuation of my nearly week-long birthday celebrations. I'm tellin' ya, my family and friends took such good care of me that I was on the verge of being birthdayed out by the time the day actually came.** Fifteen of my closest friends and I ate way too much BBQ and then headed to the bowling alley to inevitably injure ourselves by trying to show off what great bowlers we all are(n't).
If you're ever in doubt of the level of classiness of a bowling alley, ask yourself these two questions: a) Is there a jukebox? b) If so, does it contain every Now THAT'S What I Call Music! ever made? If you answered yes to one or both of these questions, then gear up for a fun filled
Being the rambunctious young set of party-goers that we were, we of course made the best of the situation by getting our five dollars' worth of Ke$ha, Usher, and T-Pain with a healthy dose of Billy Idol thrown in for good measure. As our twenty or so horriblarious selections were coming to a close, I noticed a young man headed toward the jukebox to pick out a few songs of his own, no doubt in an attempt to bandage the wounds that we had inflicted with all that (gasp!) POPULAR DANCE MUSIC!
Now I'm not trying to perpetuate any stereotypes here, but yes I am. He was wearing a wife beater and had a tribal tattoo on his bicep. From the looks of him, I'd guess he started out as a skinny nerd who, after failing miserably at dating in high school, spent most to all of his college career lifting weights in his basement so he could act like a d-bag and treat girls like crap.
This is where the twenty bucks comes in. Samantha, in all her infinite wisdom, took one look at him and predicted that his first choice would be Nickelback. Now, for those of you who don't know me that well, Nickelback kinda makes me want to commit first degree murder (which, if my memory of the employee handbook serves me right, is generally frowned upon by the good people in our human resources department.) Approximately thirty seconds later, what should be forced on my brain but the gravelly, angry screaming of:
I'm through with standing in line
To clubs we'll never get in
It's like the bottom of the ninth
And I'm never gonna win
This life hasn't turned out
Quite the way I want it to be
There was a general outcry of surprise and chagrin from our party, which probably only served to convince Captain Angsthole that he had made a wise and crowd-pleasing song choice.
And that is the story of how I lost twenty dollars and all respect for mankind on my birthday.
P.S. Be sure to check out yesterday's guest blog by the lovely and talented Sarah Howrey. She's my favorite. :)
*Please don't tell me. My sanity is like a fragile, defenseless bird's egg just waiting to be crushed by a dissatisfied reader.
**Obviously this is a joke. Who could possibly ever be birthdayed out? Free presents, free attention, and free cake. FREE! CAKE!