If you noticed, I didn't blog yesterday. Why? Because I decided to make a deal. Let me explain. The Kid's birthday was back in February. With everything going on with baseball, here and there, I haven't been able to schedule his birthday party. He's been asking everyday since to have a bowling party. So Sunday, while I was standing in line waiting for his team baseball pictures to commence, one of the mother's mentioned that it was her child's birthday and all he wanted was to watch Wrestle Mania on Pay Per View. Then the sound of the bell went off..Ding! Ding! On the way home I devised a plan. I said, "Okay, here's the deal. You can either have a bowling party this summer or I can buy the wrestling event on TV for your birthday but you have to forgo a party." After about a negative 30 seconds, he said, "Deal!" I thought I had hit the jackpot. Why? You ask again? Because a bowling party would have cost me up to $150 smacks. Humans beating the crap out of each other $60 smacks. I win!
The Kid loves wrestling. I watch it. Or participate because that's what mothers do. I also can relate. As a kid my own father loved wrestling. He used to take us to wrestling matches in Downtown Nashville. We watched it every Saturday at noon and years later actually became friends with one of the wrestlers by the stage name Moon Dawgs. I also asked this friend at one time why in the world he wanted to be a Dawg of the Moons. It's a complicated, turkey leg eating story.
Any hoot, this is a staple in our house. Ian loves it. Every Monday night and Friday night I know that I stay in the bedroom. I call it pure torture. Sort of. I mean these guys have more baby oil on their bodies than I did at 13 laying out by the county swimming pool trying to impress boys in a bikini. They are walking slip n slides. Then their heads look like they have been shrunk by a voodoo worshiper. Their arms can't even touch their sides, so they walk like plastic toy figurines. Don't get me wrong. The Rock is smoking hot as a mouth full of Hot Tamales, but their something weird about walking around in one piece looking bathing suites or speedos with over zealous muscles that look like pizza doughs strategically placed on their bodies. And you really want to know the truth? The first thing I look at is their mid section. Where's the beef? The stuff? The rumble in the jungle? There's nothing that even resembles a bulge. They all have the mushy pecker syndrome.
Then there's the issue of pouring sweat on to each other's bodies, the lifting up in the air with their hands between their legs. Is that normal? A man putting his hand between a guys legs on the little Tiffany box and picking them up only to slam them down? I don't understand the logic of picking up a 300 pound guy only to throw him down. Don't they know that shit hurts and could cause hemorrhoids? If you pick up a guy over your body weight and the blood vessels are bulging out of your head, that's a sign that you back away from the beef cake. I mean that crap would kill a normal person. And further more they are touching the marbles. You gotta be in touch with the manhood of the ball nation to do such a thing.
I don't know that I really understand the logic of volunteering to be pile drived into a mat. Although one guy with his eyes rolled back in his head and tongue hanging out reminds me of when this Moma has a little snap session and whips life back into shape. But I do know this. I, on my quest to come out as cheap as possible on the birthday party, made the deal of the century. No screaming kids. No invitations. No big bucks spent on slushies and pizza. I got to stay home, eat Burger King and see my kid happy as a lark. I guess it really is worth spending the money on half naked, crazy men.