cataleptic calisthenics

(Or, more accurately, fond memories of grades 7 thru the rest of my junior and senior high school existence in which I conveniently skipped co-ed sports bra hell and jockstrap misery on a regular basis in favor of alternate nonconformist acts of pop-&-jocularity).

Bowling night commences this upcoming Wednesday, and you better slow your roll to a screeching halt when it's my chance to twist the wrist, because my personal rulebook explicitly states that my lane is the second-born lane of triplets, meaning I can roll a tornado right over your alley any time I sees fit and neither of my congenitally fused linear kinfolk can bump their gutters about it because, well, it's THE RULES.

That being said, it has been brought to my recent attention that my athletic prowess is comically nonexistent at best, downright fictitious at worst. To which I say... the fuck? Seriously folks, I can Crip-walk on ice skates and practice Kung Fu moves in the shower like I'm David Carradine sans soap-on-a-rope. (And by practice Kung Fu I mean invoke peaceful meditation between shower spigot and clitoral floweret. Ommmm-kay... Don't judge). But that's just not hunky-dory enough for some sportylicious booty-smackers who grasp and squeeze their fellow ball-handlers' hindquarters at head-scratching moments of gesticulatory excellence that far exceed the 12th grade, an age when most awesome people appropriately ditch their benchwarming duties in favor of new experimental pastimes, like smokin', sexin', and stealin', to name a few.

To all my draconian whistle-blowing naysayers, I have the following to declare: I'll stratospherically crush ya azz on a mini-golf course and combat you in a cosmic-bowl crusade to the finish, and when I do win, I vow not to be all IN YO FACE about it. Unless, of course, copious amounts of grown-folk brewskies and unsolicited douchebaggy companionship magically presents itself (and, let's face it, it always does). In which case, the previous statement is obviously no longer applicable.

Runners-up, polish off your tenpins and squish your ten (or so) toes into those lubberly bowling shoes decomposing nicely under your kitchen sink and I'll peep ya in your lanes!