The Crime: Domestic Abuse
The Perp: Blue-Collared 47-year-old male with an Amber Alert Mustache
The Scene of the Crime: Abby’s Birthday Party at the Playmor
Weapon: 14-Pound Bowling Ball
Saturday, February 9th, 2013. The Penguins were playing the Devils. Kirk Cameron was speaking in Georgia about Christian marriage. A club in Jersey was having a parade for Snooki’s kooka. We had two birthday parties to attend at two different bowling alleys. It seemed like a pretty normal, low-key Saturday.
Until a sickening display of barbaric violence shook the Playmor bowling alley to its core.
At approximately 1:25pm, Henry’s blue-collar, calloused hands fumbled a pink 14-pound bowling ball and dropped it on an exact (some might say PREMEDITATED) trajectory to my precious left foot.
(Henry will argue that it was only 12-pounds, but please — let’s not listen to the VILLAIN of this story.)
What made it worse was that I didn’t even realize he had dropped it, so there was no anticipation, no toe-cracking preparedness. All I knew was that one minute everything was fine — an Emarosa song swimming in my ears, sparkly fairies twirling around my cherubic head — and then it wasn’t fine.
My Emarosa song scratched to a halt, the sparkly fairies fell to their death. And my foot, it felt ALL THE PAIN. Time stood still. Henry sounded like a miles-away dick-in-throat Barry White (“Oooooh myyyyyy Godddddd I’mmmm sooooo sorrryyyyyy! Pleassssse don’ttttt castratttttttte meeeeee!”); bowling pins crashing around me sounded like sheets of metal waving over my head; convents of nuns state-wide braced themselves for what Satan-approved words might come exploding out of my mouth.
But instead, I stood there in frozen silence. I was too confused to really understand what was happening, too overwhelmed with toe torture to field-kick Henry’s ballsack, too stunned to swear — props to me on that, since I was flanked by unlimited childrens’ birthday parties.
Not that it mattered, considering that the sound the bowling ball made upon impact was virtually onomatopoeia for: FUCKING OW OW MOTHERFUCKING OW, COCKSUCKER OUCH!.
Potty-mouthing aside, what I REALLY wanted to do was projectile vomit all over Henry’s son-of-a-bitchin’ mustache. Once the blinking neon PAIN, THIS IS TRUE PAIN signs faded out from my eyes, I was able to see Henry had a tangible sheath of AW FUCK clinging to his face, the official Saran Wrap of apologetic, frightened pussies. Bitch, you BEST be scared. There’s a reason I keep some of my old Darkchat friends around!
(For the black magick, duh.)
The first few minutes, I was too focused on pain management and muttering death threats at Henry to cry. But then my DICK HEAD son came over and motherfucking stomped on my poor damaged foot—the sound his shoe made against mine was the orchestral theme song for Evil Son From Hell. Moments later, my friend John, the dad of the birthday girl, came over to get our bowling game started and I blurted out, “HENRY DROPPED A BOWLING BALL ON MY FOOT” followed by an appearance of Pity Me tears.
Henry tried to be a Funny Man about it and said, “Well, I guess we’re done bowling, ha-ha” and seemed like he was prepared to return my bowling shoes.
“Um, I’m still going to bowl,” I snapped, and then asked him if he was capable of finding me a fucking ball without putting me in traction. And preferrably not one that’s 14 pounds, what the fuck.
Determined to be a hero, I bowled TWO FRAMES with an almost- broken foot, icing it in between turns.
Henry and I simultaneously realized that this was not the first time he tried to keep me down by handicapping me. He started to laugh about it but was abruptly silenced when I cupped his balls with a hand made of barbed wire, using nothing more than the power of my glaring eyes. I don’t know Henry, your mangled foot fetish seems pretty wanton at this point.
At least this time wasn’t soundtracked by the sickening crisp of cartilege breaking.
Henry’s “Please don’t call the cops/Jonny Craig is an angelic singer/I’ll clean the whole fucking house/WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY!?” look of Desperate Remorse.
Right after Abby’s birthday party ended, we had to head straight to another bowling alley for Chooch’s cousin Zac’s birthday party. I made a beeline for Henry’s sister and whined, “Guess what your brother did!?”
Kelly offered an appropriate level of sympathy.
“Are we going to bowl here too?” I asked Henry as I shrugged off my coat.
“No, my finger hurts,” he said.
OH. WELL SHIT. Wouldn’t want him to be in ANY PAIN.
Much later that night, I finally mustered up the courage to peel off my sock and inspect Henry’s ruthless damage. I already knew nothing was broken, as evidenced by my ability to wiggle my toes without agony catapulting me through the roof, but they looked looked like they went skinny-dipping in a blueberry pie. Shit goddamn motherfuck it hurt so bad that I can’t believe the damage wasn’t greater. It was practically a My Left Foot sequel.
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