God bless the Duke of Argyll! If the youth of today aren’t the most annoying creatures on the planet I’ll eat my finest Sunday derby. Condor-sized prairie mosquitos and door-knocking donation guilt-trippers have nothing on these grating simpletons.

I went to one of those Halloween corn maze dealies with the themes and the actors and a seething mass of acne cream and hormones that comprised half of the attendees at the event. The other half was made up of equal parts parents with far-too-young children and semi-drunk adults, one of whom showed me the adult diaper she was wearing in anticipation of complete urethral sphincter failure. Classy gal.

What a study in the stunting of immature brain development wrought by obsessive social media use (probably).

The females – a crowd of vacuous, chattering nymphs. Relentlessly giggling clusters of nincompoops dotted the area, each engrossed in their own personal world of the most banal and idiotic internet videos conceivable. Blaring lighthouse-strength flashlights at 16-second intervals to capture at least a fifth of every second spent watching makeup tutorials with three friends and three enemies, rotated weekly.

The males – slobbering incoherent troglodytes. Troops of braying moon-faced baboons performed actual goddamn push-ups in line in a pathetically vain attempt to draw even a faint shard of attention away from the females’ telephone screens. Incredulous at their failure in a slack-jawed, vacant-stare kind of way. What chance do their asinine antics have at wresting top billing from the latest pop sensation’s gender switch or non-standard sexuality revelation? All conveniently disclosed just before their latest album release, naturally.

A couple rungs down the social ladder, acting too-cool-for-school and lathered in cheap aftershave, some pimply junior high nimrod tried to engage in conversation with the actors to impress his fellow latch-key low-wallers. This edgy breaking of the night’s social contract predictably resulted in a running monologue about his hilarious despondency regarding his wife and how she took him for everything he had in the divorce. Oh, my, yes. Your broken home and childhood neglect will surely forge a grand supply of material for a career on the Just for Laughs tour. That fresh, hip, aren’t-I-just-so-dark-it’s-funny shtick will take you to the top one day but for now you’re just scratching dandruff into the mashed potatoes of everyone who wanted to accept and enjoy this thing for what it is.

Their parents should have left them all in the woods to feed the bears and wolves. Abortion Classic, as it is.

Speaking of abandonment, I stopped by a local hand-spray car wash during the day preceding the latest league night and what did I find discarded in the sudsy residue? Just an everyday kiddy car seat, apparently no longer needed by its owner but most likely still by its user.

What could prompt a mid-wash tossing of a child’s safety seat? The other side was closed and there were no children nearby. My mind was drawn to the deceptions required of a man engaged in the sin of adultery and the lengths some sad apes will go to satisfy their carnal urges.

Our lovelorn suitor, perhaps assuming himself in line to get, in the parlance of our times, “lucky”, stops by a local liquor distributor to purchase the type of wine his paramour ordered at last week’s clandestine dinner in the neighbouring town. A glance in the rear-view mirror reveals an egregious oversight almost certain to scupper his chances of being invited in to “fix the cable”. The child’s car seat. No more glaring reminder of the sinful deed his target of affection commits when she lays with a man who hath pledged himself to another. While having already dismissed any guilt through the studious practice of mental gymnastics, somehow twisting his treachery into a righteous cause begat through his wife’s actions rather than his own, he cannot risk this fresh, supple conquest developing cold feet.

Thinking with the quickness and guile that drives the human population ever-skyward, he makes haste to the nearby gas station and unloads his brood-bucket inside the nearest car wash bay. What tale he could possibly provide to his wife that would explain not only the missing seat but the combined smell of soap, shame, and coitus on his shirt collar I couldn’t fathom. What I easily can is that that kid’s going to be having two Christmases real soon.

At the alley there would certainly be no such tomfoolery. Mature adults, all of us. Of course we walked in to find the neighbouring lane occupied by a team of twenty-somethings in their pyjamas. Sweet Mother Mary. At least it’s a one-generation upgrade and the women were old enough for me to just feel normal creepy while checking out their asses rather than dirty-old-man creepy.

Indeed, the best of league night was out last Tuesday. In addition to these young, fit, presumably fertile females donning high socks, short housecoats, and some sort of briefs-type shorts to the right, to our left was a smoking hot petite milf-type with a great nose who was not bowling with a man of the same surname. Coming down the middle was our very attractive waitress loaded down with beer and jalapeño poppers. Oh yes, the kitchen has reopened to my great deep-fried joy.

Slotted into a top-notch lane for the fourth game of the season, our opponents were two forty-ish men—also of the more petite variety—and their two fine ladies who fit quite nicely into that milf category as well.

While I managed a respectable 141 in the middle frame it was sandwiched by scores of 111 and 121 and also was part of a losing effort. As I have managed to completely lose the scoresheet (my responsibility for the first and last time this year) I remember only the most basic, vague results. We took games one and three by the width of a beggar’s bill fold while dropping the middle frame in a most crushing fashion. Thus, while we earned 4 points for the two games, they totalled 3 points for their one victory and the overall score.

In all, the night could have been better for us but we seemed a wee bit off all night. The good news on the kitchen front, the ladies, and Lily Liver making an ass of himself trying to impress one of the pyjama girls tilts this well into good night territory. I’m hoping for some more bowling tips tonight so chime in if you’ve got ‘em!