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This Is Not Normandy, This Is Bowling, There Are Rules

This Is Not Normandy, This Is Bowling, There Are Rules

I love bowling — but I inversely despise everything to do with bowling.

I don’t like wearing diseased, hand-me-down shoes every time I want to throw a ten pound ball at the ground, but I quite like the way bowling shoes look. They have a garish, retro vibe and I’d probably wear a repurposed pair around town. They’re like saddle shoes for psychopaths.

I’m not really a fan of bowling alleys in general, but they’re kind of necessary for the whole bowling experience. Any old idiot can stand in their backyard and throw big rocks at small children, but you can only bowl in a bowling alley. I’d say the smell is really what sets an alley apart from everywhere else. Depending on how close you are to the attendants, the whole place usually reeks of feet, cigarettes, and sadness. Sometimes, if there’s a nice fellow behind the counter with a bachelor’s degree in eastern philosophy, dreadlocks, and more tribal tattoos than he can count, you’ll detect a slightly stronger, skunkier aroma, but it’s nothing I’d be too worried about. God help you if the place serves food, because that throws the smell into a whole new dimension. When you enter the alley you’re greeted by the smell of burned corn dogs, french fries, and philosophy majors.

Overall, there are worse things to do with your time, but I don’t go out of my way to bowl anymore. I find that it’s a lot cheaper to sit in my kitchen and drop medicine balls on my feet instead of going out and catching something nasty from the cashier.