I realized on Sunday that I miss football season. It kept all the idiots inside on Sundays and let me enjoy life without the promise of asphyxiating on humanity. And apparently, the skating rink is where all the people want to be when suffering football withdrawal, because that fucking rink has been packed tighter than Clay Aiken’s asshole for the last few weeks. In fact, the one week we went, the parking lot alone was so crowded that we promptly left and went bowling instead.
This past Sunday, we decided to grin and bear it. I knew as soon as we walked in that it was going to be bad news; maybe it was the immediate and shrill cacophony of dolphins on a sugar rush which tipped me off to that.
There were kids everywhere, and they were fucking HYPER, like eight orphanages had planned a field trip on the same day and then set off porridge bombs and false hope of adoption. Totally unacceptable. There was almost nowhere to sit, and some kids were sprawled out in the middle of the walkway like they fucking own the joint, which made me tremble with territoriality.
And of course, they all came paired with douchey parents. Before my skates were even laced, I had already made twenty-three enemies, unbeknownst to any of them. No, you are NOT excused, you mom-jeaned tart.
I made it around the prepubescent slalom course six times at best before slowing to a stop next to Henry (who was patiently pulling Chooch along near the wall) and saying, loud enough for all to hear, “I’m done! There are way too many kids here. THEY ARE RUINING IT. KIDS RUIN EVERYTHING. FUCK!” Henry just looked at me patiently, waiting for me to put a cork in my effervescing rant bottle. I expected him to concur, to say something like, “Yeah, fuck these bitch ass kids. Let’s string ’em up in the corn field and let the Lord take over!” But there was no massaging of my neuroses, so I skated off the rink in a huff, staked out an empty spot on the bench to squeeze my fat ass into, and proceeded to vent to all of my imaginary friends on Twitter. I did a lot of angry exhaling too, because I needed everyone around me to know that I was extremely disgusted by their infiltration of my roller rink, which I purchased 49 years ago in a secret sale before I was even born, that is how awesome I am.
At one point, I happened to look up just as Henry and Chooch idled on the rink across from where I sat. Chooch pointed at me and laughed while Henry pantomimed a crying fit.
In the middle of my stew session, Roller DJ (who actually gave us a super warm welcome since he hadn’t seen us in like three weeks so that in and of itself made me feel like I belonged there more than any of these other motherfuckers) announced in his signature lackadaisical drawl that it was time for Couple Skate. Sometimes, Kim and Chris will chill out off-rink with Chooch so I can chase Henry down and skate-rape him, but they weren’t there this particular afternoon because Kim hasn’t been feeling well. (And let me add that it sucked not having a partner with whom to plow into small children). So, I stayed on the bench and played into the role of downtrodden single hag while Henry and Chooch couple-skated. And of course, this would be the one time Roller DJ actually played a song worth couple skating to.
Paula Abdul’s classic sex jam, “Rush Rush.”
So instead of fake-holding Henry’s hand while telling him about all the boys this song made me want to make out with in middle school, I sat unloved and alone on the bench, witnessing a verbally violent domestic quarrel between the human versions of the Gorgs on Fraggle Rock who were seated across from me.
King was very upset and bellowed loudly, “WHY DON’T WE JUST FUCKING LEAVE THEN?” while Queen sat there acting all Appalachian and shouting back at him to shut up and leave then. I tried to piece it together, maybe he caught her in the back alley fucking a chicken leg, and goddammit this is the LAST time she’s gon’ fuck some greasy chicken leg behind HIS back, so good luck finding another man with a gas station attendant job as good as his who can also fill the role of dead beat dad as adequately as he did.
But no, it was because he done got himself the wrong size roller blades.
“YOU AIN’T LEAVIN’ ME HERE ALONE WITH THESE TWO,” Queen hollared back at him while giving the two youngest ragamuffin spawn a neglectful flick of her thick wrist. “WHY DONTCHU JUS’ GET A NEW SIZE?”
I didn’t even try to pretend that I wasn’t watching. How ya’ll gon’ argue while “Rush Rush” is playing, anyway?
In the end, he ended up getting a new pair of roller blades and I can only hope they went home later and fornicated on top of a week-old pizza box while Jeff Foxworthy did some stand up on the tellyvision behind them.
Realizing sitting it out was more detrimental to my nerves than actually fighting the masses on the rink, I decided to give it another go-around. My patience hadn’t improved much during my short hiatus and I found myself flat-out yelling at children because fucking RINK REF wasn’t doing his job. What a motherfucking waste of a striped shirt and whistle. Then a parapet of inexperienced wheeled grade schoolers forced me into the wall and your fucking mother could have easily steamed some goddamn succotash on my face after that. I resumed skating with locked-arms and hands balled into fists.
When 18+ skate was announced, I legit cheered. Loudly. There was a vigorous Roof Raise connected to it. However, it didn’t take long to figure out that even 18+ skate was going to be a bust. The rink was full of honky doofs that day. I watched some older man attempt to do a split in the middle of the rink, only to fall on his broad cracker ass. Bring back the black people!
We left shortly after an hour and a half, and Henry had to buy me a shamrock shake to cheer me up.