At a going-away party for some friends moving to Seattle, Devon and I were chatting with a couple planning to get married next year, and they mentioned they were considering doing it at a bowling alley, which is kind of awesome in part because all the guests can rent really cheap shoes. I suggested how much more awesome it would be if, instead of pins, you knocked down taxidermied squirrels on strings. It would be like bowling meets hunting, but with fewer bullets and more vending machines. Devon was like, “Yeah, and it should have a soundtrack where every time you hit a squirrel, there’s a blood-curdling scream.” And I was like, “Totally, and if you got a strike or a spare, you’d hear, ‘WHY, GOD, WHY?! OH SWEET ZOMBIE JESUS!’”
That’s why Devon and I work well together. We tag-team that shit like a motherfucker.
Now I’m sitting here with a friend in New Jersey, where we’re staying until after Thanksgiving. Her 11-year-old son just said something that sounded like, “I don’t think penises are a viable …” We didn’t hear the rest, so we’re trying to figure it out. We came up with:
a) form of transportation
b) fuel source
c) means of resetting taxidermied squirrel bowling pins.
Now he’s insisting he didn’t say “penises,” that he said “phoenixes,” but that’s retarded. Why would anyone say “phoenixes”?
In other news, I’ve grown too big to see my own vagina. There’s no going back.