Jan 172011

The DJ at the RollerDrome is in love with Kim and sort of reminds me of Christina. It’s exciting to me that you can see my quotation mark tattoos in the reflection.


By the time my second straight rollerskating trip rolled around, I had shimmied out of my idyllic sense of humanity like sodden post-rape panties and resumed hating every wheeled dildo that dared skate in my path. It was crowded this past Sunday with Steelers-jersied douchebags and birthday partying prepubescents, most of whom had their feet stuffed in clunky rollerblades, which are super easy to trip over on the rink. I hate that rollerblades are permitted there. QUADS 4 LYFE.

Kim and Chris thankfully made it home safe and sound from the ghost hunt as well, so they met us at the rink. There are two reasons Chris comes skating: to play videogames with Chooch and to help Kim and I lace our skates. (He calls himself KH now – Kim’s Henry. It’s a pretty accurate nickname.)

Once they arrived, I tried not to talk too much about the prior night’s ghostly events in Henry’s presence, lest he feel all left out and do that thing where he shoves his hands in his pockets and slumps his shoulders. He could have joined us at the haunted school if he wasn’t so scared.

The music selection was a little better this week. What the rink lacked in Lady Gaga, they made up for in Ke$ha (look I spelled it right this time!) and Trey Songz. Still too much Katy Perry. At least three tracks! I once knew this obnoxious girl* who would always end tweets with “boo hiss” when she was displeased with something and I thought that was so lame, but really – BOO HISS, FOR REAL. (* And no, I’m actually not referring to myself.)

However, I was very happy with the song selection for the first Couple Skate of the afternoon and thought to myself with a smile, “I’m so glad I survived ghost hunting last night so that I could skate to Air Supply today.” Air Supply, bitches! Huge fan of soft rock.

There were a lot of children there who had no right being on that rink, and because of them, I spent more time slaloming around the wooden floor and less time practicing the roller-dance I’m choreographing in lieu of walking down the aisle. (You know, if Henry ever proposes before arthritis and osteoporosis sets in.) There was one point where Henry and I were skating together sort of near each other (to Justin Bieber no less; I let loose an ironic shriek in perfect tandem with all the young girls and Henry was not pleased) and I delved into a (loud and meant-to-be-heard) rant about how bad I hate children and how they should all stay the fuck home playing their fucking Wii and sexting their classmates and leave the rollerskating intricacies to the well-trained adults. Henry made some off-hand remark about our son being there too, but he’s cool by association, I argued. Besides, he spent most of the afternoon sidelined on the bench with Chris, playing games on my phone. I’m so disappointed that my spawn wasn’t graced with the same roller-master gene as I.

“You weren’t always good at skating,” Henry argued. “I’m sure it took you awhile to learn, too.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I cried. “There was no learning for me. I put the skates on and just skated. It was inherent, Henry.”

Just then, some douchebag in a flannel CHANGED DIRECTION in the middle of the song and came barreling toward me. He and I both yelled out in terror at the same time, narrowly missing each other, which made Henry do this husky laugh inspired by schadenfreude. I hate that fucking laugh. It’s usually reserved for when I get busted for writing about someone on my blog. (He thinks I’m going to get recognized someday while out and about in Pittsburgh, which will probably lead up to me catching a blow with my jaw. But then I remind him that there are only 10 people who read this thing.)

The DJ announced it was time for Limbo, causing Kim and me to collectively protest. Limbo is a fucking waste of time to the die-hards who want to SKATE, MOTHERFUCKER. And of course, since there were so many kids there, that fucking line snaked back to eternity.

Getting in line for Limbo. Never mind that Chooch can’t skate!


“How is Chooch going to manage to get under the bar?” Kim asked. “Do you think Henry will take him all the way?”

“No,” I said, barely thinking about it. “Henry will probably just push him through.”

I was right. Henry gave Chooch a hearty shove, resulting in Chooch falling and basically crawling his way under the bar.

“I used to be so good at that,” Henry murmured to himself, lamenting the fact that it’s been thirty years since his Limbo heyday. I’m going to have to ask his mom if she has any photos of a bell bottomed Henry, in a provocative half-split Limbo action-shot.

I sort of had a crush on Henry that afternoon. Skating makes him seem less old, I guess. He tried dodging me when it was Ladies’ Choice, but I’m way too fast; I caught up to him and clamped his hand inside my own, silently signifying to all of the rink that we are definitely A Couple.

My crush dissolved as soon as Henry took off his skates.

I nearly wiped out way more times this week than last, all because of waist-high nuisances. Kim even used one as a hurdle at one point. I’m pretty sure that people should be licensed before being allowed on a rink. Amateurs really fuck with my flow, you know? Specifically that asshole in the flannel. His near-collisions with me were beginning to become such a regular occurrence that I was sure he was doing it on purpose. I kept skating over to Henry and screaming about it.

“He’s gunning for me! That fucking prick is doing this on purpose! He won’t be happy until I break one of my delicate bones!” But then I started thinking about how I always wanted to break my nose, because I hate it so bad, and I wondered if I could somehow arrange for that to happen by the flannel motherfucker’s hand, so that people would feel sorry for me and I could get a new nose, which would hopefully change my whole face just like it did for Jennifer Grey and then no one would recognize me and I could start over from scratch! No more running from the Feds!

Look, you flanneled motherfucker: Try skating in the right direction! I don’t care if you’re six. You are a motherfucker.

When I finally pointed him out, Henry was surprised. “I thought he was going to be at least a teenager, the way you were talking about him!”

Why? Because I used names that most respectable adults reserve for other adults? I don’t care if he was two-years-old and in a wheelchair. He would still be a motherfucker. Evil little dickhead.

The other person I hated was this old fuck who thought he was Flashdance on skates. Oh my Lord, he disgusted me. While everyone not participating in Limbo was told to stay off the rink, he planted himself in a corner and did these fruity fucking pirouettes with his arms bowed gracefully above his head.

“What a dumb motherfucker,” I yelled to Henry. “Stay home and do that stupid shit on your driveway, am I right?” I looked at Henry for his adamant agreement, but instead he gave me a thoughtful stare which means he’s trying to figure out why I’m so hateful. Maybe it’s because of you, Henry!


(l-r) Fruity Ballerina, Rink Ref, Someone in a black shirt associated with those two so clearly he must be an asshole, as well.

Next to Fruity Ballerina is the rink ref (Henry said he’s actually called a skate guard and I was like, “OK, but there’s no alliteration in that…?”) who chastised Henry thrice (little Conan shout-out) last week for wearing a beanie on the rink. I was prepared to shoot him scowls and stinkeye but then I saw Henry sidle up next to him on the rink and lean in real close to his ear. Whatever Henry said made the rink ref laugh, and then Henry laughed too, and I felt so confused. I thought we were supposed to be hating this dick, not sharing secrets with him on the rink?

When Henry skated back to me, I demanded to know what he said to him, and I swore Henry said something about asking him to go thrifting, which makes sense because that’s always what I pictured Henry doing on a same-sex date, but later, when we weren’t shouting over top of Ludacris, he said he merely alerted the rink ref that someone had spilled something on the floor by the refreshment room and people were streaking it around with their skates.

Oh. That’s pretty boring.

Kim’s Sunday Boyfriend (i.e. The DJ) told her that his friends have bought the rink. The current owners are going to finish out the season, but once the new owners take over, it’s going to be better with more Adult Only skates and hopefully a new DJ (sorry, dude). I will be highly anticipating that. I might even have my birthday party there. One of them, anyway. (I have a few years’ worth to make up for.)

  8 Responses to “Rollerskating: Operative Word – Motherfucker”

  1. I love your blog, I also think Pittsburgh is a magical land.

    • Thanks, man! I love yours as well.

      Parts of Pittsburgh are pretty magical, but then there are the parts that make me want to peace out and never look back!

      • That is so kind, I actually didnt even think anyone read it at all, now that I know your reading I will have to step up the quality of the posts.

        • I particularly enjoyed the one about why you left Facebook and your Octomom tangent! I would comment way more but I read from my phone, which is not always cooperative with leaving comments. I’ll sign in from work tonight, though!

          • please, I was not fishing, but knowing that you read is great… Thanks. I know It may be pretty dull since it is mainly about video games.

  2. You can’t wear a damn beanie on the rink? Yes that’s the most important thing I picked up from reading this. What losers!!

  3. I scrolled up through my friends list rather quickly and thought at first that WAS Christina. Barf!

    Rink showoffs always annoyed me very much as a young skater. I mean, puhLEASE.

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