I think I have a lot of ‘badges’ in this life.
“Loud-mouth political hack?” Oh yeah.
“Idiot with a blog that thinks his opinion matters?” Both of my hands are up.
“Person that obsesses over boobs too much?” I’m looking at boobs right now which explans the awkwsentance that you read … I mean yes, that’s me too.
But today we can add two new ones.
Degenerate gambler and best team mate ever.
See, I was on a bowling team. Which is retarded and uncool, and to hell with you honey “The Big Lebowski is a GREAT movie and therefore bowling is actually pretty cool, unless it is really dorky and yeah it’s really dorky.
Chew on that sentence MS Word Grammar Checker! It’s such a train wreck, I’m proud of it actually.
Anyway our office team sucked. We sucked so bad we didn’t even have a name; our name was literally, “Team 8.” We came in eighth out of eight teams so maybe the name was fitting but really we didn’t give enough of a crap about bowling to even give ourselves a proper name. I suggested, “Lebowski’s little league” but retracted the idea when it was suggested we only drink white Russians while ‘rolling’.
No can do teammates. Beer or death.
Team eight it remained. Our team’s level of ‘notgiveashitery’ was epic, and I’m oddly proud of that. Of the ten or so games we were scheduled to play, I think we made four. Because well its summer, I have to go on a business trip, my ass hurts, something good is on TV and it’s on a fucking Tuesday night for Christ sake.
But even though we suffered from toxic-levels of ‘notgiveashitery’ we faithfully paid our dues, because even though we couldn’t be bothered to actually, you know, SHOW UP we all felt it was important to give the league money. I’m proud of us for that. As a team we gave two-shits by the end of it about showing up but god we’re paying our dues!
So yesterday the league captain or league general or league ‘his-royal-majesty’, whatever the hell he’s called, phoned me. The league was over, they wished we had participated more, maybe we could come back this fall when things have slowed down and most of ‘Team Eight’ isn’t scattered across the planet and try again. And, by the way, I have an envelope of money for all of you, it’s not much, about $130 and when can you pick it up.
Through a set of circumstances that sum up with I had tomorrow off and bowling league king/high-priest/his honor never ever left the bowling alley we agreed that I would meet him at the alley at 2 p.m.
Fast forward to 2 p.m. today and a few apologies, my guys travel a lot for work, I travel a lot for work, yeah maybe next time, the fact that it was a Tuesday was troublesome we’ll try again, just give me the envelope asshole, thanks for your time, better luck next time, you’re team couldn’t even pick a name for fuck’s sake and I had an envelope with $130 and like 70 cents in it.
Now again I was not working today, except for a quick trip into the office to handle a few items earlier, I was done for the day. Going home and drinking beer while watching day-time TV has about as much appeal to me as bowling does so … but wait, this bowling alley, like many overseas on military bases, it has a slot-machine room.
I had exactly three U.S. dollars in my pocket (I know because I was buying a beer when this idea came to me) and an unopened envelope with $130 that belonged to my team mates.
“Yeah, I’m going to gamble my team mate’s winning away,” I said to myself taking my first swig of pilsner. “And when I lose it all, I’ll quote Hunter S. Thompson quotes to myself as I drive home,” cause nothing says fun like quoting HST to yourself when you drive home after losing $130 on slots, the sucker bet of any bet if there ever was one.
I cashed out at $330 figuring an increase in profits of ‘math is hard’ was good enough. That’s right Team eight, I took our ‘winnings’, well our ‘earnings’ well our “money the league gave us because we sucked” and made that $32.50 each of you had coming into $82.50, cause I’m a good dude.
I’ll totally wear the white bathrobe though.