9NK - Sticky Fingers

I own a bowling ball...shoes, too. I go bowing about once every six months or so. I enjoy it, and would probably go more often if I had acquaintances whom enjoyed it more, but for now that’s it. A sensible person might point out partaking in an activity only a couple of times a year doesn’t really necessitate the ownership of equipment requisite for said activity. In many cases, I’d likely agree...bowling is not one of them, to me at least, for three reasons. The first two are shoes. This was only a small problem for me until the first time I saw some dude bowl sans socks. I shall forever think of him as Fungal Fred. The third reason is, of course, the balls. You watch people scratch their eyes, wipe their mouths, pick their noses. You see them scurry off to the bathroom between frames to drain off processed beer. Most of them (me included) are in and out in less than thirty seconds. Nobody washes their hands in a bowling alley. Some of the really desperate ones probably squeeze off a dookie, maybe even have a “break-through” whilst wiping. And the first thing they do after handling their balls in the bathroom is handle the balls at the lane...sticking their fingers down into the nice, dark, and warm recesses of the balls’ holes. At best, there’s penicillin growing in those things. At worst, probably a nice case of staph.

This same phenomenon has almost made me swear off playing poker in public games. Instead of balls, you’ve got chips and cards...but the thirty-second bathroom dash is exactly the same. The people that smoke while playing poker really amaze me. Hands on dicks and assholes, hands on cards and chips, other hands on cards and chips, hands on cigarette, mouths on cigarette. If I thought I could get away socially with wearing latex gloves, I would.

Don’t start off down the path of thinking about this stuff. You’ll start to notice things like the guy at Subway making your sandwich handling money immediately before or after the assembly process. When I was a kid, I kept my money in my sock during the summer if my shorts didn’t pockets. Next, you’ll start making it a point to carry exact change so you don’t have to risk getting the ratty-ass, sticky dollar bills that have been down some stripper’s G-string. What’s that? Never thought about the dollar you get back from your vente latte at Starbucks having cozied up to some herpes-invested cooter? Well, you have now.

I know I’m nuts, nobody has to point it out. But there are methods and reasons behind the insanity. Hmmm, I guess by definition then it’s not insanity.

Well, I’m off to have dinner at Mongolian Barbeque...free salmonella with every meal!