Save
After driving 30-minutes East of Seattle, I expect to see a great bowling alley. But, as we pull into the parking lot, all I see are pot holes, a horse and Amish buggy, and no cars to speak of- broken down or otherwise. Even the building is in shambles, needs painted and looks a bit haunted. The old road sign reading- Flicker Lanes- is half-burnt out. Seeing the building’s interior lights on, I’m reassured that the place is open- but then again, maybe they’ve been left on by mistake. “There’s LOTS of NICE bowling alleys in SEATTLE,” I said. “Why did we come ALL THIS WAY to go BOWLING?””I take it that you’ve never BEEN here before.””I don’t think ANYONE HAS. I don’t even KNOW what PLANET we’re on.””I don’t know what PLANET you’re on either… but the rest of us are on your ANUS.”I half-smile, marveling at his wittiness.
