Sometimes it feels strange to have another man’s ball in your hands. The weight might not be quite right or the holes could be too far apart or too small. Familiar, yet completely foreign. Given enough time spent holding it, however, exploring its cavities and getting comfortable with its heft, that other man’s ball can become truly yours.

I spent a sizeable chunk of my workday and even some of my own time on Thursday searching for bowling tools and bowling-related art. I consider it a meagre success overall because while I did spend far too much time driving and even travelled to the deepest part of the civic asshole that is the adjoining city (don’t take that as a slight on anuses. They’re one of my favourite things), I did end up with a dandy good bowling ball and bag. That was my main goal and when I don’t get too drunk or tired or just plain churlish I can get things done. Things that I want to do and don’t require additional learning, at least.

Firstly I was forced to join face book. It has this marketplace thing where the common detritus that is everyone I don’t like personally advertises items of which they want to dispose. These soulless online entities will then give their home address to a total stranger with a completely blank face book page without a second thought.

My first potential victim had a 15-pound bowling ball for sale. From the pictures it looked like it was drilled for a fingertip grip but the holes turned out to be almost too close for a standard grip and while the thumb cavity was spacious the finger inserts were a bit snug. I figured I could shave down the inserts enough that it would work if my second quarry’s ball wasn’t adequate. At least this long-haired weirdo had the sense to meet me outside his apartment building.

For my next excessively long break from work I called on a bohemian-type woman in her comically small trailer parked in front of one of those old downtown houses with tiny rooms and dark, moist basements that seemingly only exist to be torn down for condo buildings and butt-ugly modern townhouses. The place next door had a rack of women’s clothing on the front porch with a sign offering “a buck for a bag or a handful”. They’d most likely all been laundered so I didn’t bother.

The seller was actually in the yard of the house behind the trailer admonishing a pair of moon-faced children to be nicer to each other. Tied up in the yard and barely making a show of straining to get at me were two dogs of indeterminate breed. One was toothless and one eyeless (I didn’t see eyeballs and he was aiming at the space four feet to my left). While they barked their protest at the large, strange man left alone with two young children (a boy and a girl so no matter what sick weirdo might have come calling he’d have his flavour, like Neapolitan ice cream for pederasts), she fetched a fantastic old bowling bag and a ball that couldn’t have been a better fit if it were Woody Allen with his custom-made American Girl doll.

If I had done these trips in a different order I wouldn’t have bothered with the first ball but I had to hedge my bet. I’ve also started getting a taste for bartering so I can’t pretend I would have given the nice lady more money if I’d seen her earlier. Considering I got this excellent sack and ball combo I call it a win for Dicky.

After work I had to resist the fresh whisky bottle in my cupboard and wait, agonizingly sober, until the evening to meet another guy who gave me his home address even though it’s apparent he has a family and I could be doing the internet equivalent of that guy in The Jerk who hates cans. This was for a too-good-to-be-true 3’x2’ hard board version of Richard Nixon bowling. The one from The Dude’s house. For twenty clams!

Makes me think. Politicians are all lying scum anyway so maybe it’s good to have a mean S.O.B. In charge rather than some cheerful Charlie who’s never felt that pure singular ecstasy when the red wave washes over your entire being and takes control. Untold generations of atavistic instinct unleashed in the bloodstream, relentlessly fighting for every gasping bit of glorious life. Waking to a bloody pulsing vision of your own bare hands desperately gouging. Gouging your way to survival. Maybe we all know that feeling. Maybe we all know how the atrocities in our world can be committed.

I wasn’t about to veer into blackout savage territory over a college dorm room art piece but I certainly did end up being perturbed. After hitting every goddamn red light on the half-hour drive through a town composed entirely of strip malls and controlled intersections, I arrived at the man’s unguarded home a bit early and messaged to say as much. He said sure he’d be home soon. After over 30 minutes waiting and smoking conspicuously in my car in the middle of his brand new townhouse complex I said I had to go and the flaky twat replied, “oh yeah, sorry I got tied up.”

The nerve of this filthy rat bastard. I just terrified all your female neighbours and their feckless husbands and that’s all you’ve got to say? What if I slipped in the back door and waited for you to come home so I could strap you down with zip ties and remove your face with your own wedding gift cheese grater? Not a thought given. And I didn’t even wait in his driveway so they’d think I was his dealer and malign his wife behind her back for her poor taste and inevitable class downfall. I was courteous and parked around the corner where I wouldn’t block a driveway. It doesn’t pay to be nice sometimes.

One out of three ain’t bad, though. I got what I wanted most and I know the name and address of the guy who might get drugs planted on him or have a bulk order of crickets poured into his open car window one night next summer. Maybe a frozen can of shaving cream. I haven’t decided what not to do yet. I’m far too lazy to follow through on intricate plans for vengeance. I barely manage to read my mail once a month and it comes through the wall next to my front door.

We saw something new on our second league night of the year—pre-bowling. If you can’t make the game you can go in earlier in the week and roll ahead of time. Most likely to maintain valuable averages and handicap scores and provide a good rebuff to the legions of noncommittal friends offering to be a “spare”. Our matchup was, like last week, two married couples but we ended up playing against one couple and a pair of ghost robots.

With the pace quickened due to the prebowlers we had to make fast work of sobriety. Thankfully, I had ordered rounds of Jameson shots the week before and my teammates were eager to make it a game night ritual. Due to one of the crew having a lilied liver they’re always accompanied by pickle backs but despite this frivolity the desired result was duly achieved.

In an almost exact repeat of last week I had the absolute worst score across both teams in the first game (77), a middle-of-the-pack second (103), and the second-best score by a scant two points in the third game (144).

While we didn’t blow them out we did cruise to three straight fairly comfortable wins, the margin stretching from 14 to 29 to 76. Not only that, Lily Liver himself won us a free pitcher of beer with a strike on the bowl-for-beer portion of the 50/50 draw.

We even managed the third game walloping despite the distraction brought on by two stunning charcoal-skinned women in jean shorts who started bowling a few lanes down from us. I didn’t expect much eye candy during league night but these two were like super nibs and wine gums put together. I suggested to my Black female teammate that she make friends with the ladies and she, looking out for me as always, had already done so. If they aren’t really into guys who own vintage bowling gear I expect to receive a public and humiliating rejection very soon.