You are rolling through a random neighborhood and pass the street sign that reminds you every time you go by it to trim up the landscape or book that waxing appointment.
You turn on to the interstate; maybe you’re going to Target to pick up some sunscreen knowing you will come out with $200 worth of stuff you never intended to buy. Or maybe you are just running an errand and trying to think of something to do for date night, and you remember how much you used to love bowling.
Maybe your small town had Rock N’ Bowl nights where they turned on black lights and played loud music while everyone snuck in vodka-spiked Sonic Slushies and threw some balls around in rented, stinky shoes. Since there was nothing else to do other than drive around in that town going from Sonic to McDonald’s in a big loop (the drag), maybe you got to be a pretty decent bowler your senior year before you turned 18 and could go to the two “clubs” in town. But only if you had a buzz, because you had never actually been bowling unassisted by alcohol.
Have you ever noticed when you learn how to do something while drinking, you have to re-adjust everything when you try to do it again without alcohol, and you usually never get as good at it as you were (or thought you were) in your partying days?
That’s the Drunk Curve.
It applies to shooting pool, throwing washers and horseshoes, and talking to people at parties and in other social situations (at least in my case).
Maybe while you are busy remembering your high school bowling days, you pass this bowling alley and piss yourself laughing.
Again, you’ll have to join me in the mind gutter, but who names a bowling alley the Come Bowl?
I understand what they meant; it is an invitation and directive to come bowl in this fine establishment, but in the filthy, not-so-proud recesses of my mind, this whole strip is instantly converted to Dirty Town. The entrepreneur in me would open strip club next door named Gutter Sluts. Farther down the access road, a gas station/convenience store chain that I’ve only seen in Oklahoma would open a branch filled with their not-so-subtle sexual innuendo.
Perhaps it was unintentionally, suggestive business naming on the owner’s part, but if you’re going to print a Come Bowl sign, you might as well go all the way with it and name it the Cum Bowl.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’m publishing this anyway.
Hope you get a laugh out of it.
I know I did.
Any other suggestions for this imaginary block of Dirty Town?