Our fearless band of part-time pirates, the Buccaneers of Lake Charles, descended upon a local bowling alley this evening to compete for some fantastic prizes. That’s right- they all consisted of some sort of alcohol. Sure, go ahead and laugh, but you have to admit. It sure beats some stupid trophy that will sit on the shelf in the den until your wife one day finally tosses it out along with your back issues of Sports Illustrated.

We have two bowling alleys here in Lake Charles, and the fact that we picked the less well maintained of the two is an understatement. The lanes appear not to have been re-waxed since they cancelled M*A*S*H. My lane actually looked like a terrorist parked a car bomb on it at one time. It didn’t really matter, though, the way our group bowls.

The first thing I noticed when I sat down to put my bowling shoes on was that there was a sign posted warning how bowling is a physical sport and that could potentially be hazardous. I know that in this day and age businesses have to warn you about everything, but I never thought I’d see bowling lumped in with other physical pursuits such as bungee jumping and whitewater rafting.

The fact that we were competing for the Grand Prize of a bottle of Crystal Skull vodka brought out the best in us tonight. Some of us actually managed to strike some pins with the ball, particularly as the night wore on and the alcohol loosened us all up.

No, I did not win the Crystal Skull vodka, nor did I win the prize for being the first person to fall on his ass while attempting to deliver the ball. Next time I’ll drink more beer and thus improve my chances.

Today’s blog post is going up a little later than I had planned. Let me explain why.

I woke up at 6 AM, early for me on a Saturday morning. I contemplated the day ahead as I enjoyed my coffee and newspaper. It was going to be a great one. There was no customary honey-do list waiting for me on the kitchen table; the grass didn’t need mowing; nothing around the house needed fixing. The only item on the agenda was my blog post, which I could knock out by eight. I smiled, realizing that I had the rest of the long day free to puruse whatever mindless activity I fancied.

A few things came quickly to mind. I could catalog my CD collection; I could waste a few hours on the Internet searching for some good jokes about various types of people and animals who walk into a bar. Saturdays like these come to my house about as frequently as a total eclipse of the sun. Man, I was in tall cotton!

My wife had mentioned to me that she was planning to rent a cleaner to do some carpets. Sure, babe, I figured. Go ahead and knock yourself out while I retire to my man-cave for the day. Little did I know that she had an ulterior motive. After nearly twenty-five years of being married to her, it was my own fault that I didn’t see it coming.

Returning with the cleaner, my lovely bride casually mentioned that she might need “a little bit of help.”  OK, what husband who values his marriage could turn down a request like that? So, she starts juggling the various bottles of chemicals that they sold her and going through the instructions with that puzzled look like she was trying to figure out how to decontaminate a chemical weapons storage bunker.

Right about that time, my hopes for a relaxing day sank faster than a Sopranos’ victim in his concrete boots. Hubby in shining armor to the rescue!

Several hours later, I had successfully completed the task. Great; there was still enough time left in the day to find at least a few good bar jokes on the web.  Then, over our late lunch of leftover pizza, she made the comment that she would also like to wash the cars.  My last little bubble of hope went up in flames like the Hindenberg. 

So, now it’s 5 PM. The CD’s sit uncatalogued and I don’t have any new jokes to tell at the party tonight.

Babe, please don’t give me false hopes again next Saturday. Just leave me the honey-do list on the breakfast table.

With data collected in-part from a facility in Livingston, Louisiana, scientists are close to proving that the universe is actually a giant pot of chicken-and-sausage gumbo. The facility is one of a handful around the world that is designed to detect ripples in space very similar to those observed when you stir flour into a pot of boiling water. The network, which goes by the acronym LIGO (Ladle Induced Gravy-wave Observatory), has been seeking evidence to prove this theory since 2005.

The “gumbo postualte” is not new, having first been mentioned by Einstein in his theory of relativity. In this theory he discusses his ideas on origin of the universe by saying, “First you make a roux.”

This has indeed been proven true, as the LIGO detectors have been able to look back to the first minutes of the universe’s existence, well before onions were added to the primordial soup. The instruments are able to detect the remnants of waves that occurred from stirring the roux into the boiling mass of cosmic matter that was ignited by the big bang. The big bang is now known to be the largest ever ignition of a propane burner.

The scientists at the Livingston facility, Drs. Boudreaux and Thibodeaux, are very excited about the discovery. They claim to have proven that what were once thought to be giant dust clouds in the space between galaxies are actually big lumps of flour. They further claim to have spectral analysis of the Orion Nebula proving it to have the same composition as Tony Chachere’s Creole Seasoning.

“Dis proves ‘dat we are but mere pieces of chicken meat in a big universe dat is mainly made up ‘o flour, water, and veg’table oil, no?” says Dr. Boudreaux.

Dr. Thibodeaux added, “An ‘dis proves what we in de bayous been sayin’ all along, dat de’ holy trinity really is onions, bell peppers, and celery.”

C’est bon!

Well, school is back in session here in Louisiana. And we all know what that means. Alright, yes, there is high school football. Who doesn’t relish the return of delightful Friday nights where we yell at the coaches for not giving our own fledgling star the ball, thus forever ruining his chances at an LSU scholarship?

No, I am talking about the return of driving through the school zones. These are the zones that lie somewhere outside the space-time continuum- where multi-tasking soccer moms put on makeup, scold Jimmmy for calling his sister a name, and remind hubby on the cell phone to pick up the dry cleaning after work, all while maneuvering through a maze of traffic cones, buses, and crossing guards. I bet any one of them could give Tony Stewart a run for his money on the NASCAR circuit.

The thing I wonder is why public officials decide to build schools where they do. They seem to be strategically located so as to give commuters the maximum amount of anguish. Do they actually plan it that way, or did those places just happen to be where the politically-connected owned land to sell to the school board?

They always put signs in the school zones telling you to slow down to something like 20 miles per hour, although you’re lucky if you could get up to about 5 when you’re going through. The parish can save the money they spend to put up these signs. Instead, they can put to better use by, say, building a new golf course where we commuters can let out or frustrations by smacking a little white ball into a pond.

In my district they even had a dry run last week, as if we had forgotten the hell we’d gone through just a few months prior. The soccer moms were nowhere to be seen for this drill. They know better; they only venture through these black holes when it’s absolutely necessary.

Times sure have changed. When I was a kid, I used to walk to school. No, it wasn’t uphill through the snow both ways like my father used to do, but still I walked. No wonder there’s such a problem with obesity among the youth with today’s 21st Century American School-day Ritual. This consists of prying the video game controller out of the kids’ hands, shoving them into the Ford Expedition, and chauffering them to the front door of the school via the McDonalds’ drive-thru.

Okay, now that I’ve vented, I’ll see you on the golf course, or, more likely, in the woods beside it.