Post Number Forty One

“How to Milk a Bowling Ball Gag”

To the casual onlooker it may’ve sounded like my soirée with Natasha De Nasha was nothing less than the dinner date from Heaven (or at least as close to Heaven as I could get by limited means. Meaning Zero Dollars and No Sense) but things didn’t quite plan out the way I panned. For some strange reason (possibly a weird quirk of the {socially constructed} female brain that even the “chicks” at my Gender Studies course are prob’ly too dumb to fathom) Natasha rejected my offer to stretch the date beyond the prison cafeteria walls where it started (actually, it really started on the train when I put the blindfold on her) and make our merry way(s) to the Bowling Zone where I could suss out her feminine form. That old sporting injury (hamstring tear to the elbow) I got when I was an arm wrestler (A-Grade. Cyber Division) had improved so much that I now felt confident enough to try my hand (and elbow) at a new career: LADIES BOWLING COACH.

See, my trip to the land of the Thais did not go entirely to waste. I got me some educatin’ there– yee-HAH! For I was a keen observer. AVID, ack-shully. (Hm. Prob’ly should’a said “avid”.) And verily did I spy lots of truly AVID things (Hm. Prob’ly shouldn’t use the word “avid” so… so… what’s the word? KEENLY) there. One thing I couldn’t help noticing was the bowling ball prowess of the Thai sportin’ gals, who had skills that few “men” could ever match in a groin-muscle contest– and they were AVID smokers, too!

This got me wondering about Natasha– for she was (and is) a fine figure of a lass, one who could very well go far in the ladies bowling world (I mused). All she needed was (and is) a bit of coaching. But, of course, she first needed a bit of coaxing to get her into that bit of coaching– and I was (and is) the man for both jobs. Right after I coaxed myself out of bed (which is another thing I was trying to coax Natasha into), that is. Eventually, all my coaxing paid off and I got the follow-up date I was harassing her for. Coy little butterfly that she WASN’T, she demanded– at fist-point– that I promise (when I take the blindfold off nex’ time) she’d find herself in a place far more better than the fusty old prison caf. Reluctantly, I made the promise and we planned a night of sports ‘n’ recreation at the local bowling rink (or whatever) called (wait for it) “BOWL MOVEMENTS” (half-hearted “zing”).

Luckily, there was nobody there (because everybody was at home playing Online Cyber Bowling) so I quickly found a whiteboard on wheels and pushed it over to where Natasha stood. Then with a few masterful strokes I sketched out a game plan for her to follow– but all she could say was:

“Drooligan, why have you drawn a diagram of a stick figure giving birth?”

Philistine! Before I could bark out for her to “drop down an’ gi’ me fiddy”, I was interrupted (lucky for her) by the text message from Uncle Mike that would change the course of my entire evening. It said:

HiDDT-RUstillthkgre: SSjoboffa





Hmm, I thought. Clearly, this is a serious matter which needs to be taken further. So I phoned him up and said” “What the fuck you talkin’ about man?!”

“You don’t know, ‘man’,” he snidely replied, “because you spend all your time talkin’ into yer STOOPID blogophone– which is, like, the lazy, dyslexic person’s S.M.S. Yair, you heard. Either that or you go entering stinky females when you should be entering the TWENNY FIR SENCHRY!!!” (I think he meant the “21st century”.)

“Hey,” was my reply. “Even aliens know how t’ use the space button, earthling. Try it some time.”

I didn’t actually hear Mike’s waffled response because I was distracted by a horrible crash noise. I quickly saw that said noise was caused by Natasha De Nasha who’d flung a metallicky-pink bowling ball (of all things) down one of those shiny wooden “roads” (or whatever) that I kind of half-noticed there in the bowling rink, thereby knocking down a whole bunch of white “bottle” thingies.

“Carn a man turn his back on this girl for one second without her GOIN’ WILD??” I pondered aloud. But before I could raise my concerns (and the volume of my ponderings) with my troublesome Date, my double-troublesome Uncle was finishing at least one of his long sentences (the wordy one, that is. Not the prison one).

“… and that’s why I’ve offered my Secret Identity to someone else”, (was what he waffled.) “So I could send him to Thailand for a spot of sausage-smugglin’. ”

I quickly deciphered the hidden meaning of his aimless wafflings.

“Are you telling me there’s a NEW Tocsin Rashapoon?” I prodded.

“Yes,” he confessed. “An’ guess what? He’s an ‘old amigo’ of yours.”

Then he gave me the name of this “old amigo”. I think you know the name I mean. A name that will go down FOREVER in the Pages of Infamy as a guy I don’t like no more. Yes, it was ALISTAIR VIVEKENANDA. Once again, his interfering Bastardism has foiled my plans. Although… I never actually “planned” on becoming a sausage-smuggler, per se… But if I did have such a plan, then he would’a been the LAST person I wanted foiling it!

The news hit me hard. Voiceless with rage (because that’s where the news hit me: in the throat) I silently hung up the phone, quietly turned and looked at Natasha before wordlessly saying:

“Spit that shiny pink bowlin’ ball in my direction, Honey Lips. I wan’a be smashin’ some bottles!!”