Sunday, January 14, 2007

Seven...I'm In Seven...

Perhaps you dropped in yesterday, and caught a glimpse of ol'
Hillbilly Mom having a tantrum about people smoking on her
at the bowling alley. She's baaaaaack...and ready to pick up
where she left off.

Yes, I expect to be smoked on in a casino. It is a virtual hotbed
of vices. Forget that they paint the ceiling to look like blue sky,
and that they have little shops and restaurants and try to promote
a 'family' atmosphere. It's a den of iniquity, I tell you. You can
find all the 7 Deadly Sins in one person if you are observant.
For example, take the fat old guy cruising around on his Rascal,
leering at the waitresses in their skimpy garb, crowding your
machine when he hears you hit a jackpot, slamming his fist
on his when he loses, and beaming when he finally wins, feeding
that machine more and more tokens, because that jackpot is
not enough.

I'm not religious, but I know my 7 Deadly Sins. After all, I
have seen 'Se7en'. Brad's a Missouri boy, you know. A fellow
hillbilly. He was raised up in the town where I went to college,
and attended the high school where I did my student teaching.
Yep. Brad and me go waaaayyyy back.

I know a bowling alley is not a pristine environment, like the
inside of a vacuum tube, or a neonatal intensive care unit. But
there is enough room that you do not have to breathe that
smoke right on me. Stop thinking that you are so important
you have the right to kill yourself and take me along for the
ride. We all have vices, but most of them do not infringe on
someone else's right to life. For example...

I don't grab my bowling alley half pound of fries and sidle
up to people and spray spit and ketchup all over their mouths.

I don't pick their pockets and use the proceeds to keep my
kids stoned on their video game addictions.

I don't rip my son's High Series plaque off the wall and wave
it in front of people's faces so they can see how proud I am,
thus missing the inferior bowling of their own offspring.

I don't smack people in my fit of anger as I am swatting my
errant children for their smart-mouthed wrong-doings.

I don't try to pry those cute little green-and-orange bowling
shoes off their small fry's feet, because they would really look
cuter on my own child, and I WANT them, by cracky!

I don't lean my head on their shoulders, or lie across their
laps so I can be comfortable watching my kids bowl, and
ask them to go pick up my half-pound of fries, put salt on
them, and open 13 little ketchup packets for me.

And I certainly don't do that remaining deadly sin, because
it quite frankly has no place in a bowling alley full of children.

So back off, smokers! I am a big crybaby and I will run tell
on you for killing me right there where everyone can witness
it. Don't mess with Hillbilly Mom. She ain't right in the head.

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